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"THE VERY AGE!" 



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THE YERY AGE!" / 



IN FIVE ACTS. 



" to hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her 

own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time 
his form and pressure." 

Hamlet. 



EDWARD S. 




NEW-YORK:^ 
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA : 
GEO. S. APPLETON, 164 CHESNUT-STREET. 







//. 



A1& 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 

EDWARD S. GOULD, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 
New-York. 



g 



AS A PASSING COMPLIMENT TO 

A FAR-OFF FRIEND, 

THOUGH WITH NO OTHER AUTHORITY THAN 

THE GENERAL SANCTION OF A FIRM FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS LOCAL TRIFLE 

TO 

WM. C. MACREADY. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

It is just possible that, at a time when theatri- 
cal " novelties " are rare, some manager may be 
inclined to hazard this play upon the stage. To 
such a one — should there be such a one — the wri- 
ter, in a spirit of courtesy, desires to say that he 
does not intend, by publishing the play, to waive 
his right of controlling its performance. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

Mr. Erskine, a New-York Millionaire. 
Charles Rodney, pretending to be Count de Bressi. 
Doctor Stubbs, a Physician. 
Frederick Somerville, in love with Clara. 
Alfred Spooney, a Dandy just returned from the grand 
tour. 

Servants. 



Mrs. Rodney, -» 

► fashionable Ladies of a certain t 



Mrs. Jenkins, 



Mrs. Spriggins, 

Mrs. Spooney, J 

Miss Larkins, a Fashionable Young Lady. 

Tabitha Pippin, an Old Maid from the Country. 

Clara Erskine, Lrskine's Daughter. 

Servants. 
Scene, New- York. Time, 1850. 



"THE VERY AGE!" 



ACT FIEST. 

SCENE I. 

Mrs. Rodney's residence : representing two con- 
nected New-York parlours. The rooms are 
well furnished and lighted: and suggest , by 
their appearance, the close of a fashionable ball. 

Mrs. Rodney is sitting : a fan in her hand ; half 
lost in thought. A Servant in attendance. 

Mrs. R. John — how late is it ? 
Serv. Half past three, madam. 
Mrs. R. What is so desolate, so mocking to 
the heart's gaiety, as a ball-room, when the guests 



12 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

have departed ? The life and fashion of the town 
were here, but now ; and now, the very silence of 
the rooms is oppressive. — Is the company all 
gone? 

Serv. I believe, madam, three or four ladies 
are yet in the dressing-rooms, and two gentlemen 
are in the hall. 

Mrs. R. If the Count de Bressi is there, say 
I would speak a word with him. 

Exit Servant. 

A brilliant affair, in its way ; yet what is it, 
after all ? A crowd of people ; a din of music ; a 
bustle of dancing ; a throng around the supper- 
table ; and home at three in the morning. But, 
though balls are in some points alike everywhere, 
and are sufficiently stupid anywhere ; commend 
me, for the supremacy of dullness, to the fashion- 
able circle of this city of New-York — where all that 
indicates mind is proscribed, and where the jingle 
of the pocket is the touchstone of exclusiveness. 

Enter Charles Rodney. 
My dear Count, that would be ; my son Charles, 



SCENE I ] THE VERY AGE! 13 

that is ; give me leave to congratulate you. You 
have played the Count this evening to perfection. 

Chas. Don't overpraise me, mother. It is 
very easy to play the Count in New-York. One 
has but to assume a title, invent a bow, walk on 
his toes and talk broken English : — not one of the 
fashionables will question his nobility, especially if 
his moustaches are greased to a point. Besides, 
my forged letters of introduction are as good 
vouchers for my title as Barings' letters of credit 
would be for my currency— in all the senses of 
that significant word. 

Mrs. B. Yery true ; and the joke, so far, is 
good. But we must keep our own counsel, for it 
will not end in a joke. — How many conquests to- 
night, Charles? 

Chas. Some half a dozen, I believe : but I 
specially affect that Miss Erskine, whose grim- 
looking father followed us about like a thunder- 
cloud. Egad ! for all his frowns, the girl is out- 
and-out in love with me. And, what is more 
strange, and altogether superfluous, upon my word 
I feel a strong affection -for her. There is some- 



14 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

thing odd in it : it's a new sentiment : it puzzles 
me. 

Mrs. E. (Aside.) Strange sympathy of na- 
ture ! But that train of thought might lead him 
to a premature suspicion in the disclosure I am 
about to make. — G-ood for a beginning. Charles ! 
Secure her, and both your fortune and my purpose 
are secured. Her father is the man of whom I 
have spoken so often. 

Chas. Ay, of whom you have spoken so often, 
and told so little. What is your purpose with 
him? 

Mrs. E. I will marry him — or, be revenged 
on him ! 

Chas. You must give me your confidence, if I 
am to cooperate in your revenge. How has he 
wronged you % 

Mrs. E. As man, at the utmost, can wrong 
woman. The time for hesitancy, Charles, is past ; 
for our common purpose requires a reciprocal con- 
fidence. In a word, then, — although it is the last 
truth that a mother should reveal — he wooed, de- 
ceived, and abandoned me. 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 15 

Chas. Good heaven ! He ! When ? Where % 
Mrs. R. In my almost childhood, at Kingston, 
in the West Indies. There were two years of joy ! 
One, as his companion : one, as a too happy mo- 
ther. — Never jump to a conclusion ! Child ! would 
I tell you this, if you were that son ? I recount 
my wrongs to explain my motives for revenge. 
(Aside.) And if I deceive you on this point, it is 
to secure my revenge. — Erskine deserted me on 
my boy's first birthday : but I smothered my grief: 
I toiled in obscurity for wages : I bided my time : 
I made my way into the family of a rich bachelor ; 
I married him : and, became your mother. Your 
father, at his death, parted his ample fortune be- 
tween us. You roved the world over and expended 
your inheritance. I made my home with my hus- 
band's relatives in England until your demands on 
my purse, and another reason, induced me to emi- 
grate to this receptacle of European varieties. I 
have been here a twelvemonth ; established myself 
in fashionable society ; given you, to-night, an in- 
troduction to the same class, as the noble Count 
de Bressi, — and now, the world is before us. 



16 THE VERY AGE! [ACT. L 

Chas. This is intelligible. But how will my 
marrying Miss Erskine promote your object? 

Mrs. R. Her father's fortune would supply 
your extravagance, which has half impoverished 
mine : then, if Erskine refuse my suit, were it not 
revenge to aid in marrying his daughter to an im- 
postor % 

Chas. I see that ; but why would you marry 
Erskine % 

Mrs. R. Because I love him still ! Besides, I 
long to subdue the lofty, indomitable millionaire, 
whose will is law to so many of his fellow-citizens. 
I would conquer the conqueror. 

Chas. Has he recognised you? 

Mrs. R. Never; unless to-night. I have 
carefully avoided him, until now: although, in- 
deed, my face and form, with thirty years' change, 
might defy his scrutiny. But to-night, he started 
at the familiar sound of my voice. The tone that 
has once conveyed the accents of love, is never 
forgotten. 

Chas. We have a notable conspiracy on our 
hands ! I am plotting to get this man's daughter 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 17 

for a wife, under pretext of being the Count de 
Bressi, and-so-forth, and-so-forth, all the way from 
Bavaria. You, as a rich English widow, purpose 
to marry the millionaire, or punish him for con- 
tumacy. Well, for tonight, good night. Our tac- 
tics are to disguise our relationship of mother and 
son? 

Mrs. B. For the present, yes; and observe 
one thing especially. Never let Erskine see you 
without a glove on your left hand. 

Chas. What ! Can the maimed finger and 
the strawberry-mark weigh down the title ? 

Mrs. B. Certainly not, of themselves : but I 
have a reason for this caution. 

Chas. Doubtless ! With all your confidings you 
women must always have one secret quite to your- 
selves. (Aside.) And this secret it happens to be 
my fancy to discover. — By the by, if these marks 
would disturb Erskine, might they not affect others? 
I had better wear my glove constantly and pass it 
off on these worshippers of foreign customs as a 
mark of aristocratic breeding. 



18 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Mrs. E. Very true, Charles. You are apt. 
I should have thought of that ! G-ood night. 

Exit Charles. 

The time may be at hand when those marks will 
be called to tell their story : but in the meantime, 
they must not betray Charles's identity to Erskine. 
— Erskine ! you little thought when you abandoned 
the poor West Indian girl, that she could trace you 
to your home in America ; still less did you think 
she could come so armed as to claim and enforce 
justice at your hands. 

Exit. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 19 



SCENE II. 

Mrs. Spriggins's. 

Servants bring and place chair 's, Sfc. 

Enter Mrs. Spriggins. 

Mrs. S. Come ! come ! be quick about this ! 
Past two o'clock, and my rooms not in order ! 
Here have seventeen cards been left and Mrs. 
Spriggins still " invisible." It will be the ruin of 
me ! my first reception of the season, too. — There ! 
answer the bell, some of you. "What are you wait- 
ing for ? 

Exeunt Servants. 

(looking at cards.) Mrs. Jenkins ! Stupid crea- 
tures ! I wouldn't have missed Mrs. Jenkins for 
as many footmen as could stand between here and 
the Battery. 



20 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Enter Mrs. Spooney and Alfred. 

My dear Mrs. Spooney, I am delighted to see you. 
Is this Alfred ? What could induce him to come 
back so soon 1 

Mrs. Sp. He has been four weeks on the Con- 
tinent, my dear ; and what would be the use of his 
making the grand tour, if he did not return at the 

commencement of our fashionable season to tell all 

/ 

/ about his travels ? 

Mrs. S. How he has altered ! Such a foreign 
air ! But don't you think his hair and moustaches 
are a little too long 1 

Mrs. Sp. Not at all. They are not only ele- 
gant and manly : they are all the fashion abroad. 
The people admired him so at Mrs. Rodney's ball: 
he was a real lion. 

Mrs. S. At least, he did not lack the mane. 
But,- about the ball ; who was there ? 

Mrs. Sp. Everybody. Such a crowd ! Such 
a display ! For New-York, it was quite passable ; 
— wasn't it, Alfred 7 

Alf. When I was in Paris, my4ady d' Orleans 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 21 

gave a ball : and, as to style, really, 'pon my 
honour — 

Mrs. Sp. It's no use talking, Mrs. Sprigging. 
We have almost no quality in this country : have 
we, Alfred? 

Alf. When I was in Vienna, my lady Metter- 
nich gave just a morning soiree : and as to quality, 
really, 'pon my honour — 

Mrs. S. Well, Mrs. Kodney's furniture is 
superb ? 

Mrs. Sp. Nothing remarkable: is it, Alfred? 

Alf. When I was in Moscow, Nicholas invited 
me to a private breakfast : and, as to furniture, 
really, 'pon my honour — 

Mrs. Sp. Mrs. Rodney's furniture is perhaps 
well enough for New-York : but her rooms were 
shockingly lighted : weren't they, Alfred ? 

Alf. When I was in Madrid, I assisted at a 
levee of the Infanta ; and, as to light, really, 'pon 
my honour — 

Mrs. Sp. Just as light as day ! and the air 
was perfumed like a Paradise : wasn't it, Alfred ? 

Alf. When I was in Constantinople, I went 



22 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

to a hop in the seraglio ; and, as to perfumes, 
really, 'pon my honour — 

Mrs. S. Mrs. Rodney must have had some- 
thing passable : how was her supper % 

Mrs. Sp. So so : wasn't it, Alfred ? 

Alf. When I was in London, I lunched with 
Wellington : and, as to dishes, really, 'pon my 
honour — 

Mrs. S. Her music, then, was good ? 

Mrs. Sp. Mere scraping : wasn't it, Alfred ? 

Alf. When I was in Rome, I attended a re- 
hearsal at the Vatican : and, as to music, really, 
'pon my honour — 

Mrs. S. Then I take my stand on the dresses 
of the ladies ; they, surely, were elegant ? 

Mrs. Sp. Plenty of expense, but not a particle 
of taste : was there, Alfred ? 

Alf. When I was in Florence, I dined with 
the Duke of Tuscany ; and, as to dresses, really, 
'pon my honour — 

Enter Miss Larkins. 
Mrs. S. My dear Miss Larkins, I had almost 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 23 

given you up, for to-day. I must introduce you, 
my dear. — I know what you are going to say : it is 
quite out of rule to introduce of a morning ; but 

Mr. Spooney has so much to tell about Europe 

la ! I forgot. I was just going to present you to 
your old beau. Never mind : Mr. Spooney returned 
yesterday from the grand tour. 

Alf. Eh, the day before yesterday. Miss 
Larkins, I have the honour, et cetera. Eh, the ladies, 
Miss Larkins, have undertaken to tell me about 
style and fashion in this country ; but I have so 
recently been at fountain-head, that, really, 'pon my y 
honour — 

Mrs. S. We have nothing in New-York, Miss 
Larkins ; nothing : Mr. Spooney will allow us 
nothing. 

Miss L. Not even beautiful women, Mr. 
Spooney ? 

Alf. Eh, as to women, Miss Larkins, really, 
'pon my honour — 

Enter Doctor Stubbs. 
Doct. S. My lady Spriggins, yours, truly. 



24 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Lady Spooney, your most obedient. My lady host- 
ess, I have left three men with broken arms and 
five babies in convulsions, to attend your first recep- 
tion. How do you find yourself, dear lady? Pulse, 
a little quick ; skin, a little dry ; eyes, heavy ; 
breath, like a bed of roses. You'll do, my dear, 
for to-day. Well — who's dead % Who's married 1 
Who's going to be married 1 In short, what's the 
news? 

Mrs. S. Nothing is newer than Mrs. Rodney's 
ball. Mrs. Spooney was just telling us about it. 

Doct. S. Ah, my lady Spooney. No one so 
competent to observe ; no one so capable to de- 
scribe. You know, lady, I am every thing by 
turns and nothing long. For once, let me be a 
listener. 

Mrs. Sp. That, doctor, is impossible. 

Doct. S. Not when you speak, lady. Try me. 
How was Mrs. Rodney ? 

Mrs. Sp. By herself and of herself,, elegant. 
She presided like a queen. But then, you know, 
she is descended from one of the first families in 
England. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 25 

Mrs. S. I wonder if that is true. 

Mrs. Sp. My dear Mrs. Spriggins, you are as 
incredulous as an infidel. Didn't my poor, dear, 
departed husband's brother invest her money in 
the public stocks 1 And hadn't she letters ? And 
are not crests and coats-of-arms embroidered on 
her very horse-blankets % It's a positive fact, doc- 
tor. 

Doct. S. Lady, I listen. 

Mrs. S. Then we'll waive that. Was Mr. 
Erskine there ? 

Mrs. Sp. Yes — and it's very odd ! Clara 
Erskine, who, you know, is as good as engaged to 
Frederick Somerville, was so smitten with the 
Count de Bressi, that, they do say, Frederick will 
be jilted to a certainty. Indeed — but this is quite 
between ourselves — Mrs. Jenkins says she'll do 
her best to make a match of it: and when Mrs. 
Jenkins does her best, in that line, we all know 
what to expect. 

Mrs. S. Yery true : I doubt if Mrs. Jenkins 
has her match at match-making on this side of the 
Atlantic. 

2 



26 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Mrs. Sp. Her success is truly wonderful. But, 
as I was saying ; Mr. Erskine was terribly annoy- 
ed at Clara's conduct ; and, what is the greatest 
news of all, Erskine is himself desperately smitten 
with Mrs. Rodney. 

Mrs. S. That's capital ! But the Count ; what 
of him % 

Mrs. Sp. Ah, my dear, now you come to some- 
thing worth talking about. He is none of your 
counterfeit lords : no Baron Van Hoffman : his 
manners show that at a glance. You ought to see 
him enter a room : and, when he is introduced, oh, 
magnificent ! Alfred, who has visited all the Eu- 
ropean nobility, says his air is unmistakeable. 

Mrs. S. I hope he received a favourable im- 
pression of our society. I do hope he encountered 
none of the mushroom gentry at Mrs. Rodney's. 

Doct. S. Mrs. Spriggins, you astonish me ! 
None of the mushroom gentry 1 Pray, what have 
we but mushroom gentry, in our so-called high so- 
ciety ? Are not the very proudest and most as- 
suming people in New-York the children of me- 
chanics ? — wasn't old Popkins a tailor ? and wasn't 



SCENE II. j THE VERY AGE! 27 

old Crickson, a cooper ? and old Bang-up, a ped- 
lar? and old Rumple, the lord knows what? Lady, 
the mushroom gentry are the gentry ; and what 
they lack in brains and breeding, they make up 
with gold and eke out with brass. 

Mrs. S. But, doctor ! you must except the 
Smiths and the Browns ? 

Doct. S. And the present company. True, 
you may except them ; you may except half-a-dozen 
families who can trace their pedigree back for fifty 
years without stumbling over cabbage, hoop-poles 
and wooden-nutmegs. But these exceptions indi- 
cate just the people who don't assume offensive 
and ridiculous airs. The man who has risen from 
honest poverty to honest affluence deserves high 
praise — provided, he is not ashamed of his origin : 
but those who are mean enough to deny what they 
came from ; who, in the day of prosperity, turn 
their backs on their former associates, and treat 
with disdain the equally worthy but less fortunate 
members of the class whence they themselves have 
recently sprung — these are but beggars on horse- 
back, for all their up-town palaces. 



28 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Mrs. S. That's just my opinion, doctor. — Be- 
sides, some of our exclusives are a little deficient 
in character. 

Mrs. Sp. ' Such as who 7 

Mrs. S. Well— Mrs. Tippet. She allows Mr. 
Brag to be constant in morning calls and afternoon 
drives ; and she has been seen 

Doct. S. Yes : they do say those things about 
Mrs. Tippet. But, you must remember, lady, that 
our real tip-top high-flyers imitate all the Eu- 
ropean customs ; and a little latitude in the matter 
of conquests is absolutely necessary : they couldn't 
get on without it : it gives a zest to their repu- 
tation — as a taint- does to the flavour of a wood- 
cock. 

Mrs. S. Since it's the fashion, then, we'll pass 
over several in that category. But there's old Bo- 
lus: 'he was caught smuggling jew's-harps through 
the Custom House. 

Doct. S. Lady — Bolus is worth two hundred 
thousand dollars. 

Mrs. S. Well — Choppin is more than sus- 
pected of having poisoned his first wife. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 29 

Doct. S. He is worth three hundred thousand 
dollars. 

Mrs. S. Didn't Cinders inveigle his friend 
Brevity into a bye-street, so that the bully, Jack- 
son, could cane him almost to death without fear 
of detection ? 

Doct. S. He did. lady: but Cinders writes 
poetry, and is worth half a million. 

Mrs. S. Then there was John Squab: didn't 
he forge his brother's indorsement % 

Doct. S. Oh, lord ! Squab is worth a million. 

Mrs. S. Why, then, should poor Thickset, 
who overdrew his bank-account for eleven hundred 
dollars, be proscribed % 

Doct. S. Because he is not worth a cent. We 
make this grand distinction, lady. A man may 
play the rogue with impunity so long as he carries 
a full purse, covers his wife with diamonds, and 
lives up to the fashionable standard of extrava- 
gance. But let him lose the price of his iniquity 
— let his purse run short, — and our New- York 
aristocracy are superb in denouncing him. 

Mrs. Sp. Doctor, you must give a lecture on 



30 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Fashion at the Tabernacle. Your sentiments would 
tell famously with an audience. They would make 
a great hit in a theatre. 

Doct. S. Just what I was thinking, lady: 
only, instead of a lecture, I will write a comedy, 
and take the principal character myself. How 
would it read in the hills? Doctor Stubbs will 
make his first appearance on any stage in the new 
play written by himself, entitled " Every Tub on 
its own Bottom." My life on't, 'twould draw a 
great house the first night : for the rest, least said 
soonest mended. — Who is this young gentleman ? 
Is this the Count de Bressi? 

Mrs. Sp. He looks as if he might be a Count, 
doesn't he, doctor? That's my Alfred, just re- 
turned from the grand tour. 

Doct. S. Somewhat resembling a grand Turk. 
You are welcome home, my dear boy ; but, Alfred 
— excuse the freedom of an old friend : you owe 
the barber a shilling. 

Mrs. Sp. Doctor, that's all the fashion: isn't 
it, Alfred? 

Alf. When I was in St. Petersburg, I saw a 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE. 31 

review of the Imperial horse-guards; and, as to 
hair, really, 'pon my honour 

Doct. S. Yes ; I have often heard of that ; it is 
a strife between the men's lips and the horses' tails, 
which shall show the longest brush ; and by the last 
accounts, the horses had the best of it. But when 
an American carries the joke to such a length that 
he cannot take a dose of calomel without swallow- 
ing a drachm of his own hair ; why, as the young 

gentleman says, really, 'pon my honour, What 

music is that ? 

Mrs. S. Oh, that's the procession of the 
Washington Monument Association. We must 
see it, by all means. Doctor, will you hand Mrs. 
Spooney to the front parlour ? 

Doct. S. With the greatest pleasure, lady. 
In my opinion, all we shall ever see of this monu- 
ment is its processions. And I will add, if G-eorge 
Washington needs a monument to his memory, 
what will become of the poor devils who signed 
the Declaration of Independence ? Washington's 
appropriate monument is erected already; it is 
the republican institutions of his country. Gran- 



32 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

ite and marble will decay ; but that which creates 
and sustains successive generations of freemen, is 
immortal ! 

Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Erskine's Library. 

Enter Erskine and Clara. 

Ersk. I sent for you, my child, to speak of 
your friend, and my friend, Frederick Somerville. 
He has made formal proposals to me ; and he is a 
man, whom in every respect I might desire for a 
son-in-law. You are confused, Clara ! Surely, I 
do not misjudge your feelings toward him % 

Clara. No, sir, I, 

Ersk. I have long observed and tacitly sanc- 
tioned his attentions. I have watched him ; I 
have studied him ; I have investigated his entire 



SCENE III.] THE VERY A G E ! 33 

character. For, if I am to part with you, my 
child, it surely behooves me to know to tvhom I 
transfer my life's treasure. 

Clara. Dear father ! we are not to part 1 

Ersk. No, not entirely ; not entirely part. 
We will not do that until one of us follows her 
who awaits our coming ; and that is hut parting — 
to meet again. But, after a father has been father 
and mother — nay, nurse, instructor, companion — 
to his child almost from the day her childhood 
dawned ; the ties between them are so many, and 
the bond of union is so strong — they do part when 
she bestows herself on one who is not her father. 

Clara. Papa, you have always been so good, 
so kind, so dear to me ! 

Ersk. True, true, true; and from this you 
may judge how I could endure to see you receive 
zmkindness from another ; from one who will have 
taken my place in your heart ; from one who could 
forbid my interference to protect you from wrong. 

Clara. Who could thus treat me ? 

Ersk. I think that Frederick would not. I 
think that his own estimable qualities would lead 
2* 



34 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

him to be kind, considerate, indulgent ; almost as 
much so as I am. And therefore it is, that, since 
you must he another's, I have little hesitation in 
approving your choice. 

Clara. But, papa, — I do not know, 

Ersk. What^ my daughter 1 

Clara. I — at least perhaps I had better 

not marry him, after all. 

Ersk. Have you changed your mind, Clara ? 

Clara. Oh, no — that is 

Ersk. Speak frankly : have you any reason 
to doubt the sincerity of Frederick's affection % 

Clara. No sir ; none in the world. 

Ersk. Ha, you answer that question readily 
and distinctly. Do you, then, doubt your own 
affection for him % 

Clara. Father ! how strangely you catechise 
me ! 

Ersk. It is as I feared ! Clara, you have al- 
ready descended to equivocation. I leave you to 
consider how far that cause is a good one, which, 
in its first development, leads to such a result. 

Clara. Now, father, you are angry with me. 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 35 

Ersk. My dear daughter, the air you breathe, 
the very dust you tread upon, is precious to me. 
Can I see you jeopard your happiness, and retain 
my self-possession 1 Nay, can I see this first step 
of estrangement from me ; this first indication of 
coldness in a heart that, until now, has loved as I 
have — and not feel the incipient throbs of a life- 
long agony? 

Clara. Father ! father ! you will break my 
heart. 

Ersk. I pray Grod that you do not inflict that 
fate upon me ! Clara, you need no longer with- 
hold the truth which I have been struggling to 
disbelieve. Do you think my eye was not on you 
at the ball, last night ? Your fancy — I will not 
say your love — is ensnared by that foreigner, that 
reckless adventurer as I doubt not, who styles 
himself a Count. 

Clara. Papa, he is a real Count. 

Ersk. Indeed ! 

Clara. He has letters from the first people 
on the continent. Besides, his manners prove his 
birth. 



36 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

Ersk. Have you any distinct idea what value 
smooth manners and a title bear in the scale of 
domestic happiness ? 

Clara. Oh, papa ! he is so amiable ! so ac- 
complished ! 

Ersk. Were he all that your fancy pictures 
him ; and, what is far more important, were he an 
honest man ; there is still that which should place 
him as far from your regard as he is from my 
respect. 

Clara. What is that ? 

Ersk. He is a foreigner. 

Clara. Surely, he cannot help the accident 
of his birth. 

Ersk. Nor do I hold him responsible for it ; 
but, being a foreigner, he is unfitted to be your 
companion. His habits, taste, education, opinions, 
differ radically and utterly from yours. I tell 
you, my child, when an American woman marries 
a foreign aristocrat, she weds herself to incongruity, 
to uncongeniality, to misery that never terminates 
short of the grave. Yet, your sex here, would 
disregard the dictates of nature and education ; 



SCENE III.] THE VERY A G E ! 37 

you would spurn those whom heaven has ordained 
to be your husbands ; and you would literally 
throw yourselves into the arms of these adven- 
turers, whose very touch is contamination. 

Clara. Father, you are denouncing a gentle- 
man who has done you no wrong, and who may 
never remember to call upon me. 

Ersk. Did you give him permission to call ? 

Clara. Yes, father, I did. 

Ersk. Without consulting my wishes, or Fred- 
erick's ? 

Clara. I am not bound to consult Mr. Somer- 
ville about every thing. 

Ersk. Indeed, you are not. That remark 
shows that you are not likely to consult him at all. 
— Clara, this interview must terminate as interview 
between us has never terminated before. I hope a 
little reflection may bring you to a better mind. 
But of one thing be assured : my sanction of that 
man's visits to my house, my consent to his usurping 
Frederick's place in your regard, shall never be 
granted. Leave me now ; and try to persuade 
yourself that your father cares more for your hap- 



38 THE VERY AGE! [ACT I. 

piness, and knows better how to promote it, than 
any other person in the world. 

Exit Clara. 

Is this a visitation of my evil genius, to punish a 
delinquency of my youth % A fear of some calamity 
at times, hangs over me, with the power of an im- 
pendent curse. Can it be, that my West Indian 
crime remains unexpiated % Is the youth of nine- 
teen, caught in the toils of a crafty Creole, to atone 
for his folly by the sacrifice of his domestic peace, 
after so many years have rolled by ? It cannot be. 
Yet, that woman is alive, and is here ! Nay, she 
has been here for a twelvemonth, although I never 
recognised her until last evening. This Mrs. Rod- 
ney is no other than the instigator and partner of 
my crime. She is changed beyond all compass of 
belief; yet she is not the less Adelaide Mowbray. 
Why is she here ? Is it accident 1 Is it caprice ? 
Has she a purpose to execute ? — Strange ! I stand 
here in my own house a free man ; yet, such is the 
power of a train of suggestive thoughts, I have 
almost the feelings of a culprit. — Now, Stephen ? 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 39 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. This note, sir. 

Exit Servant. 

Ersk. A stranger's hand : a lady's hand : and 
yet, too bold for a lady. I'll be bound, 'tis not a 
challenge, yet the sudden appearance of this little 
note gives me an indefinable uneasiness. — Ha ! 
can it be from her ? I never saw her writing ; nay, 
now I bethink me, at that time she could neither 
read nor write. Yet, I would be sworn, when edu- 
cated — and she now is educated — she would accom- 
plish just this bold, elegant, reckless hand. 

(reads.) " An old friend, who once met you in 
the West Indies, and again met you last evening at 
her own house, ivould reneiv her acquaintance. She 
will be at home and alone at four d clock. 

Adelaide?'' 

'Tis even so ! But what does it portend % Evil, 
beyond a peradventure. Were it not better to dis- 



40 T A EVERY AGE! [ACT I. 

regard this % To do so, might raise a storm that 
temporising can avert. I will see her and learn 
her purpose. Be. it what it may, I fear it not. 

Exit. 



END OF ACT I. 



ACT SECOND. 

SCENE I. 

Mrs. Rodney's. 

Enter Mrs. Rodney, reading a note. 

Mrs. R. It could not be more brief : yet bre- 
vity, in such a case, may indicate anything but 
coldness. 

" Mr. Er shine will wait upon Mrs. Rodney at four 
o ) clock." 

Not a superfluous word. "What a simpleton I am ! 
I have studied this note for half an hour to find 
some hidden meaning in its directness, when the in- 
terview which will solve all doubts is close at hand. 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. Mr. Erskine, madam. 



42 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

Mrs. E. Yes— very well. If any one else calls, 
I am engaged. 

Exit Servant. 

The crisis of my fate — long sought, long deferred — 
has come at last. Let me be true to my own hopes, 
how much soever I may falsify a chapter of my own 
history. 

Enter Erskine. 

Ersk. I am here, madam, in obedience to a 
summons totally unexpected, but which I could not 
disregard. I should be wanting in candour, did I 
not confess my recent discovery of your identity ; 
yet you are wonderfully changed. 

Mrs. R. For the better, I hope ? 

Ersk. Certainly, in all that cultivation may 
accomplish, immensely for the better. The mature, 
educated woman so differs from the wild and way- 
ward girl, that personal recognition is here but a 
conventional term ; it means, simply, the assent of 
the understanding to an undeniable truth. I cannot 
doubt that which, nevertheless, I cannot realize. 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 43 

Mrs. R. At least, then, meet me as a friend, 
even if you forget all of the past but the fact that 
we have met before. 

she offers lier hand. 

Ersk. As we have both done wrong, if not 
both suffered wrong, it is meet to meet so. — But 

he takes her hand. 

to meet as friends is equivocal and perhaps dan- 
gerous to us both. Why have you come to Ame- 
rica? And why remain here so long unknown, 
now to avow yourself? 

Mrs. R. Charles — nay ! if that name, in that 
tone, be offensive — Mr. Erskine, the answer to 
these questions involves a recital of the events, the 
trials, perchance the sorrows of a quarter of a cen- 
tury. There remains this, however, in common 
between us, and it embodies a volume in a line : — 
I have achieved my own fortune. 

Ersk. This is stranger than a dream ! 

Mrs. R. As truth is ever stranger than fiction. 



44 THE VERY ACT! [ACT II. 

Yet, why is it strange ? There is no impossible to 
a fixed purpose and an unconquerable will. 

Ersk. These are the masculine characteristics 
of greatness. 

Mrs. R. Yet these dwell in many a woman's 
heart, though she may not suspect their existence 
until necessity or oppression call them forth. 

Ersk. Was such your lot ? 

Mrs. R. Perhaps ! I desired education and 
obtained it. I longed for a position in society ; I 
married, and it was mine. Early a widow with an 
ample fortune, there is little of European high life 
that I have not known : there is little to be learned 
from travel and observation, that travel and obser- 
vation have not taught me. Yet, I am but the 
"West Indian girl thirty years removed from herself. 

Ersk. Retrospectively, the time is short, but 
the remove is infinite. I recognise you less than 
ever. 

Mrs. R. {showing a child's coral and bells). Do 
you recognise this % Do you remember the little 
hand, marked with a strawberry ? 

Ersk. Adelaide ! — heaven help me ! — where 
is he 1 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 45 

Mrs. R. Where did you last see him ? 

Ersk. At the foot of the orange-tree. 

Mrs. R. Perchance, he is there still, — but not 
as you saw him, playing with this bauble. He looked, 
he sighed, he pined long for one who was long ab- 
sent : his nurse could not comfort him, for she was 
comfortless : he faded from life as gently as an in- 
fant sinks to sleep : and his parting breath lisped 
the only name he had learned to pronounce. These 
hands placed him in the cold earth, — judge 
whether this tongue cursed the father who had 
abandoned him. 

Ersk. This passes all I had imagined. If I 
have wronged you, Adelaide, forgive me : but do 
not inflict on me the pain of listening to the past. 

Mrs.- B. If the recital of these events so im- 
presses you, consider the effect of the events them- 
selves on me. But I stand not here as your 
accuser. It is enough that you admit the wrong, 
if you consent to the appropriate reparation. 

Ersk. Eeparation, Adelaide? 

Mrs. R. Reparation, Charles ! 

Ersk. I do not understand you. 



46 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

Mrs. R. The word is a plain one, and its 
meaning is obvious — if you choose to understand it. 

Ersk. I would not talk absurdly nor incohe- 
rently : but, if I am convinced of your identity, I 
begin to doubt my own. And this word, which you 
pronounce so significantly and deem so intelligible, 
is to me wholly mysterious. You have something 
to request — to demand, it would seem. Briefly and 
in plain language, what would you have me do % 

Mrs. R. Marry me. 

Ersk. I — Marry ! — Have you taken leave of 
your senses? 

Mrs. R. No, Charles ; nor am I suggesting 
what is beyond reason or propriety. You prom- 
ised me marriage when I was obscure, ignorant, 
and in poverty: now, I am your equal and de- 
mand it. 

Ersk. Is this a form of wooing that you 
learned in European high life? 

Mrs. R. I learned it some thirty years ago in 
the West Indies, from a youth who told me that 
my voice was sweeter and my form more lovely 
than those of his own clime : and who, when I had 



SCENE I.] the very age! 47 

sacrificed all to him, left me to mourn over my so- 
litude and my shame. 

Ersk. Madam, when you relate your story to 
third persons — should you ever find occasion to do 
so — you may embellish it with fiction and adapt it 
to theatrical effect. But when you call to my re- 
membrance incidents we should both do well to 
forget, it is better to speak of them truly. Other- 
wise, you lead me to suspect that what you attri- 
bute to me is, with more justice, chargeable to a 
successor. 

Mrs. S. Dare you insinuate that? 

Ersk. I dare ; but I do not. I merely show 
you the consequence of your own misrepresenta- 
tion, /never promised you marriage; nor, until 
now, did you ever demand it. When a boy of 
nineteen, sojourning among strangers and free 
from those restraints without which no young man 
is safe, I became the victim of your artifice. Sub- 
sequently, reflecting on the coolness of your plan 
to ensnare me ; and the recklessness of your inge- 
nuity to hold me ensnared, I took the only honest 
course that remained. I escaped : I fled : I aban- 



48 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

doned you, if you choose so to term it — without a 
farewell, but not without the means of livelihood 
in your station. There are cases, where a greater 
maturity and a deeper subtlety of character give 
woman a temporary ascendancy over the youth of 
my sex : and this was our relative position thirty 
years ago. I have learned something in the in- 
terim. Now, I am no one's dupe. 

Mrs. R. In a word, then, you refuse me 1 

Ersk. Unequivocally. Peremptorily. 

Mrs. R. Yet pause ! — Forget that I have de- 
manded this. Forget all past and present wrong. 
Forget and forgive. Love me as you once loved 
me. I entreat, I implore you, Charles, do not re- 
fuse me ! 

Ersk. I will neither temporise nor deceive 
you. It is simply impQSsible to listen to such a 
proposal. — Rise, for shame ! 

Mrs. R. Charles — I warn you ! — this refusal 
shall cost you more than your life ! 

Ersk. "Wronging no one, and in charity with 
all — even with you — I smile at a threat from one 
who cannot wage her quarrel without avowing her 



SCENE I. J THE VERY AGE! 49 

dishonour ; and who, by that procedure, must dis- 
credit herself where credit alone can sustain her. 
Did I not pity, I would defy you : as it is, I par- 
don and bid you adieu. 

Exit Erskine. 

Mrs. R. Refused ! humbled ! scorned ! — One 
moment of grief that my woman's nature cannot 
repress : 

(rings*) 
— and now, for a revenge at which man's heart may 
quail ! 

Enter Servant. 
I am at home to the Count de Bressi. 

Exit Servant. 

The dearest wish of my heart is blasted ; and, 
with it, perish all the compunction my heart ever 
owned ! Erskine may weep at the remembrance 
of the child beneath the orange-tree ; but he will 
shed tears of blood when he comes to know — as, 
at the right time, I will make him know — that the 
child is alive, is a man, is the chosen and cherished 
3 



50 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

instrument of my vengeance. I deceived Erskine 
on this point, hoping to secure him in a moment of 
sympathy : there I failed. I deceived my son on 
the same point, lest he should falter at the final 
step. — Let that step he taken, and Erskine shall 
know with what safety an injured woman may be 
defied ! 

Enter Charles Rodney. 

Chas. I give you joy, mother, if you have suc- 
ceeded with your love, as I have with mine : — but 
no ! you have failed ? 

Mrs. R. Utterly : hopelessly : of that, hereaf- 
ter. How have you prospered ? 

Chas. To my heart's content. Informed by 
you that Erskine would be here, I called on Clara ; 
found her alone ; had a sentimental tete-a-tete ; 
declared my adoration ; and received all the en- 
couragement I dared hope for. 

Mrs. R. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Chas. Mother ! what is the matter ? 

Mrs. R. I am thinking ! 

Chas. That laugh was unearthly. 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 51 

Mrs. R. Never mind it. I am glad you have 
secured the daughter : the father is my victim. 

Chas. But — what do you propose ? 

Mrs. R. Nothing now ; nothing until you are 
married. 

Chas. That may take time. Erskine will op- 
pose me, to a certainty. Clara told me so ; and de- 
signated the hours when he is usually away from 
home. So, you see, the thing is on a clandestine 
footing already. 

Mrs. R. That's a felicitous thought ! A clan- 
destine footing is one that will bear urging and 
may be expedited by one's friends. We will con- 
sider this. But, if it takes time, I can wait. I 
have learned to wait. I have waited thirty years. 
Another year, more or less, is of little moment. 

Chas. You don't mean to kill the man, mo- 
ther ? Yet, on my soul, you seem equal to such a 
deed. 

Mrs. R. Kill him ! Allow him to escape me 
with a few pangs of dissolution ? Suffer him to 
expiate my life of bitterness by a groan or two ? — 
No ! a dearer fate than that is in store for him. 



52 THE VERY AGE! [ACT 11. 

Chas. Mother — you are deceiving me ! 

Mrs. R. I!— How? 

Chas. My mere marriage is not such a ven- 
geance as you propose. 

Mrs. R. Are you a Uount? Have you the 
title you assume 1 

Chas. No ; neither am I altogether a vaga- 
bond : and if I obtain Clara under false pretences 
as to my position, I shall not deceive her as to my 
affection. I love her with a passion that, I con- 
fess, I do not understand : but the thing farthest 
from possibility is that I should ever treat her un- 
kindly. 

Mrs. R. [Aside.) How shrewd is the instinct 
of the heart ! I have almost betrayed myself ! — 
Charles, you are deceiving yourself. To a man of 
Erskine's temperament and station, such a decep- 
tion would be the very bitterest punishment ; and 
the more so, because it would be co-existent with 
his life. Still, in the excitement of my own disap- 
pointment, I have exaggerated its intensity. You 
must consider, Charles, this is my only method of 
retaliation, and I would fain believe it greater than 
it is. — Where are you invited this evening ? 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 53 

Chas. To dine with Mrs. Jenkins ; who, be- 
tween ourselves, is v&ry friendly, and, to my judg- 
ment, rather French in her morals. And if her 
skill as a match-maker does not belie her reputa- 
tion, her assistance just now, which she readily 
promises, will be of great use- Besides, I flatter 
myself that she has her own reasons for wishing 
me success as a husband. 

Mrs. R. As how? 

Chas. Umph ! She could then, according to 
the European rule, better rely on me as a lover. 

Mrs. R. You forget, Charles, that you are 
now in the moral atmosphere of New- York. 

Chas. Oh, as to that, your fashionable women 
are much the same all the world over. My ac- 
quaintance with the people here is brief; but 
I already find the same fondness for display, the J 
same longing for admiration, the same ambition 
for conquest, as one finds on the Continent ; and, 
if the passion for intrigue, which is twin-sister to 
the rest, is far behind the rest in the giddy race 
of fashion, all I can say is, I am greatly deceived. 
As to the young women of the same class, who 



54 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

seem to have no thought and no object in life but 
a brilliant match — egad ! they are so fascinated 
by my title, that, were polygamy allowed, I could 
not only make my own selection, but have as many 
wives as King Solomon. 

Mrs. R. Nevertheless, I may count on your 
constancy to Clara, simply because she will be the 
richest heiress of the city. 

Ohas. Mother, you do me. no more than jus- 
tice. I am a model of fidelity to the main 

chance. 

Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

Union Place. 

Enter Erskine. 

Ersk. How astounding is the apparition of 
this woman ! She has risen, as from the grave ; 
and, with a sort of supernatural energy, she sum- 
mons me to a fate to which my own grave were 
preferable. — Marriage with her ! 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 55 

Enter Frederick Somerville. 

Frederick ! you pass an old friend like a new foe. 
What's the matter % 

Fred. Mr. Erskine ! is it possible ! 

Ersk. Possible, my dear boy % Very possi- 
ble indeed. 

Fred. Have you been recently at home, sir ? 

Ersk. Not for an hour, perhaps. 

Fred. Then this is still more incomprehen- 
sible. 

Ersk. I find it so. Will you explain ? 

Fred. I beg your pardon, sir : but you take 
this very coolly. 

Ersk. Nay, Frederick, if you have anything 
serious to say, you must express yourself intel- 
ligibly. 

Fred. Then, sir, I think it right to inform 
you that I just now called at your house, and was 
refused admittance. 

Ersk. This is some mistake. 

Fred. Not on my part, sir. Stephen himself 
told me Clara was engaged. 



56 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

Ep.sk. I do not know, I confess, how she 
should he engaged at this hour ; hut, if it did so 
happen, there is nothing very serious ahout it. 
Come, go with me. I'll warrant we find her at 
leisure. 

Fred. But, sir, — after walking a short dis- 
tance, and reflecting on a thing so unexpected, I 
returned, saw the door opened, and the Count de 
— Bressi, I think they call him, 

Ersk. Ha ! 

Fred. I say, sir, the Count de Bressi, followed 
to the door by Clara herself, came out of your house. 

Ersk. I have been in a feverish dream through- 
out the day ; but this incident, like the burst of a 
trumpet, wakes me to affirmative action. Come 
with me : I say you must I She followed him to 
the door, did she % Would I had met him there ! 
But no ! were I to grapple him in this mood — fool 
that I am ! Forgive me, Frederick. This villain 
should not have the power to move me thus. Come, 
I am calmer now. But I feel a load on my heart 
that crushes it down with a mountain's weight. 
Frederick, I will go home with you. I will not 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 57 

trust myself to see Clara now. I will defer that 
until the morning. Come. 

Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Mrs. Jenkins's. 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins, Servant following. 

Mrs. J. The perfection of ill-manners ! to 
send me a regret, just as my dinner is ready to be 
served. Violent head-ache, indeed ! This head- 
ache is the most incomprehensible of all domestic 
ailings. A lady in want of an excuse is never in 
want of a head-ache. Take this to Mrs. Popkins 
immediately. 

Exit Servant. 

I will accept no such regret. My number is 
fourteen ; and I must dine thirteen because, at 
this hour, when it would be ridiculous to send for 
any one else, Mrs. Popkins must have a head-ache. 
3* 



58 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

I wouldn't dine thirteen to save Mrs. Popkins 
from Purgatory — that's flat. Let me see : a quar- 
ter to six : and of all my company invited at five 
precisely, not a soul yet in sight. Really, this 
fashion of coming at any time to a dinner appoint- 
ed at a fixed time, has its inconveniences. Mercy 
on me ! is that coach to stop at my door 1 

{rings. ) 

Three trunks behind ; two in front ; the top cov- 
ered with band-boxes ; and the inside filled with 
bird-cages. 

Enter Servant. 
William, what is that coach doing there ? 

Serv. I think, madam, it is a visiter from the 
country. 

Mrs. J. G-ood lord ! and just as my company 
will be arriving. Run, "William : tell them I am 
not at home : I am out of town :— Stay, it is too 
late ! As I hope to be saved, there steps out my 
maiden aunt, Tabitha, looking like a fright as usual. 
See the wretch ! she stops to bully the driver about 
his fare. G-o, William ; pay the man whatever he 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 59 

asks ; and get that woman with her trumpery lug- 
gage into the house and up stairs in the least pos- 
sible time. 

Exit Servant. 

Such an exhibition as that before a dress-din- \y 
ner company, and the Count de Bressi of the 
party ! Confound the hag ! I could cry for vex- 
ation. But it won't do to quarrel with the old 
fool. She is worth a hundred thousand, at the 
least, and I am almost certain to be down for it in 
the Will. I must get her out of sight and keep 
her out of sight for to-day at any rate. I hope 
she has such a head-ache that she can't see out of 
her eyes. 

Enter Tabitha ivith a band-box and a parrot-cage. 

My dear aunt ! how happy I am to see you ! 
Such an unexpected pleasure. 

Tabit. I always like to surprise you, Susan : \J 
it's my way, you know. But, my dear ! I have 
been in such a flurry ! Boats, racing ; ladies, 
screaming ; gentlemen, cheering ; captains, swear- 



GO THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

ing ; boilers, bursting : I am more dead than 

alive. 

Mrs. J. Poor dear annt ! you must go to your 

room immediately. 

(rings.) 

You have a dreadful head-ache, of course. These 
steamboat captains ought to be indicted. 

Enter Servant. 

Take this band-box and cage to Miss Pippin's 
room : and tell Jane to arrange the bath. 

Exit Servant. 

A bath and a good sleep will perhaps carry this 
off. 

Tabit. My dear Susan, you mean all this for 
kindness ; but, child ! I want time to breathe. I 
am much better since I am clear of that abomina- 
ble boat. Indeed, I am more hungry than any- 
thing else. I hope you haven't dined ? 

Mrs. J. It's long past my dinner-hour ; but 
that's of no consequence. I'll send anything you 
would like to your room. 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 61 

Tabit. You are very kind ; but indeed, Susan, 
I prefer to remain here. 

Mrs. J. Just as you please, of course. But 
if your digestion gets disturbed, and you should 
have one of those dreadful head-aches — 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. Doctor Stubbs, madam. 

Exit Servant. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) I thought so! they are 
coming ! — Now, my dear aunt, you'll have a fit of 
sickness ; I'm sure of it. 

Tabit. Well, well, if you insist upon it — stay ; 
I have lost my glove. 

Mrs. J. I'll find it when I come back. 

Tabit. But there's a ring and a sixpence in it. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) The devil take the glove ! 

Tabit. Ah, here it is. 

Enter Doctor Stubbs. 
Doct. S. Lady Jenkins, ten thousand apolo- 
gies for being so late : but we doctors cannot com- 
mand the hours. 



62 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

Mrs. J. First door after the turn of the stairs : 
you know the room ? — No apology is needed, doc- 
tor. — I'll go with you. 

Tabit. What a nice-looking man ! who is it % 

Mrs. J. Only the doctor. Come. 

Doct. S. Madam, your most obedient. — A 
friend from the country ? 

Mrs. J. Eh — yes : my aunt. She is not very 
well. 

Doct. S. The more reason, lady, for present- 
ing her to the doctor. 

Mrs. J. Oh, Lucifer !— My aunt, Miss Pip- 
pin : Doctor Stubbs. 

Tabit. The great modern benefactor, who dis- 
covered the use of the chloroform ? Sir, the whole 
world is ringing with your praise. 

Doct. S. Lady, I am the whole world's very 
humble servant. Allow me. Not very well, lady 
Jenkins ? This lady is the picture of health : and 
fresh from the country, no doubt ; for she wears 
one of those sensible hats that are hat, parasol 
and umbrella all in one. 

Tabit. A practical man, doctor, is my admira- 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 63 

tion. The city fashion of hats is shocking: — 
stuck on the crown of one's head, to say nothing 
of looks, how they expose the complexion ! 

Doct. S. Nevertheless, lady, pray remove 
your hat : these rooms are warm ; and those 
lovely ringlets should never be hid. 

Tabit. Oh, doctor ! I do not believe my hair 
is fit to be seen : but you are so polite. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) Doctor, if you keep her 
talking here, I shall die ! 

Doct. S. (Aside.) Hush ! she's a real study. — 
I knew it. Ah, lady, those natural curls put our 
city hair-dressers to the blush. You are just from 
Communipaw 1 

Tabit. From Tarrytown, doctor. 

Doct. S. A beautiful spot, lady, provided one 
does not tarry there too long. 

Tabit. True, doctor : I begin to tire of living 
in the country. The beaux are so stupid. 

Doct. S. Yes : young men seem to be born 
without brains now-a-days. 

Tabit. I don't mean the very young men, doc- 
tor : but the substantial men : the men of a certain 



64 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

age ; men whom one might hope to depend upon : 
even they are stupid in the country. 

Doct. S. Lady, I cannot answer for the good 
or bad qualities of the country bachelors ; but I 
admire your discrimination between youth and 
manhood. And the rule holds good with your 
own sex. What a treasure does a solid middle- 
aged man possess, who can call his own the thou- 
sand nameless charms of a woman so far matured, 
that the poetry of her passion is tempered by the 
divinity of her judgment. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) Doctor ! for heaven's sake ! 

Tabit. (Aside.) The dear, delicious man ! — 
I see, doctor, you have felt the tender passion. 

Doct. S. Never, lady. Never, upon my 
sacred honour ! — At least, never, but for that 
charming creature whom my imagination has often 
pictured, but whom my eyes never yet beheld. 

Tabit. Doctor — your arm ! — I am so agitated ! 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) G-et her out of the way, or 
I shall go mad ! 

the Doctor and Tabitha retire up. 
This woman will be the death of me ! 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 65 

Enter Mrs. Spooney and Alfred. 

My dear Mrs. Spooney, I had almost given you 
up. Do you know it's past six o'clock? 

Mrs. S. My dear, do you know that people 
abroad never think of being punctual ? — Do they, 
Alfred? 

Alf. When I was in Algiers, I dined with 
the Bey of Tunis ; and, as to punctuality, really, 
'pon my honour — 

Enter Miss Larkins. 

Miss L. My dear Mrs. Jenkins, I am sure 
you will pardon my coming so late. I ordered 
the carriage at five, but the coachman's livery, 
which has been three times at the tailor's to be 
altered, never came home till six. 

Mrs. J. You are quite in good time, my dear, 
compared to the rest. My dinner will be burned 
to a cinder, and we shall have but few to eat it, at 
that. 

Alf. Miss Larkins, may I presume to touch 
the tip of your finger ? When I was in Cairo, I 



66 THE VERY AGE! [ACT II. 

went to a dance of the Almehs ; and, as to fingers, 
really, 'pon my honour — 

Enter Mrs. Spriggins. 

Mrs. S. Not a word, Mrs. Jenkins ! not one 
word ! I was dressed and ready an hour ago ; 
when, who should rush into my house but one of 
those public nuisances, a country cousin? She 
kept me on one foot listening to an everlasting 
story about the racing of steamboats, until I 
could'nt help wishing the boiler had burst, and 
blown her and all the company to the — hem ! 

Tabit. {coming forward.) You are severe, 
madam, on country cousins. 

Mrs. S. La! — I beg your pardon, madam. 
I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. 

Mrs. J. {Aside.) I have no alternative ! — 
Ladies, my aunt, Miss Pippin. 

Tabit. {looking at Alfred.) Is that a man, 
or an ape? 

Alf. Really, 'pon my honour 

Tabit. It talks, though ! 

Mrs. S. You must excuse me, Mrs Pippin. 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 67 

Tabit. Miss Pippin, if you please. 

Mrs. S. I beg your pardon, Miss Pippin. 
But in speaking of country cousins, I intended no 
reference to ladies at our time of life. 

Tabit. Our time of life, indeed! Upon my 
word, you are mending the matter at a great rate, 
Mrs. Spriggy. 

Mrs. S. Spriggins, my dear. 

Tabit. Spriggins, then : it's all one : either 
name is sufficiently ridiculous. As to time of life, 
I am sure you are old enough to be my mother. 
And although, by one of the accidents that regu- 
late those things, I am aunt to Mrs. Jenkins, I 
can yet set my cap, madam, as jauntily as any 
widow of my acquaintance. 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. The Count de Bressi, madam. 
Mrs. J. Let the dinner be served immedi- 
ately. 

Exit Servant. 

Aunt ! for mercy's sake ; — this is a nobleman. 
Tabit. What ! a real nobleman ? 



68 THE VERY AGE! [ACT 11. 

Enter Charles Rodney. 

"What a beautiful man ! 

Chas. Mrs. Jenkins, I am happy to see you 
looking so well this evening. Mrs. Spooney, I be- 
lieve. Ah, (to Miss Larkins) my partner in the 
Polka. 

Mrs. J. Doctor Stubbs, Count: a great favour- 
ite with the ladies : unrivalled in a sick chamber : 
■ the discoverer of the chloroform : a physician who 
can cure everything but the heart-ache and the 
head-ache. 

Doer. S. Count, I appreciate the honour our 
lady hostess confers on me by this introduction : 
but her compliments are unanswerable. You 
know the lady, Count? She is the sun of our so- 
cial system : her radiance imparts life and light to 
the meanest satellite of her train : and we can no 
more fly from her attraction, than the planets can 
abandon their orbits. 

Alf. Really, 'pon my honour 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 69 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. (to Mrs. J.) Dinner is served, madam. 

Exit Servant. 

Mrs. J. My company has not all arrived : but 
as our chief guest is here, we will not wait for 
them. 

she takes Chas. Rodney's arm. 

Doctor, will you hand in Mrs. Spooney ? 

Exeunt^ ceremoniously : Tabitha 
catching the Doctor's other arm. 



END OF ACT SECOND. 



ACT THIRD. 

SCENE I. 

Erskine 1 s Library. 

Erskine discovered sitting at a table. A servant 
in attendance. 

Ersk. Stephen, take these letters to the post : 
and say to Miss Erskine that I am at leisure. 

Exit Servant. 

I have postponed this interview with Clara until 
this morning, that I might conduct my share in it 
with moderation : yet even now, I dread it. 

Enter Clara. 
Clara. Papa, you passed the whole evening 
in your own room ; you kissed me no good night ; 
and this morning you have breakfasted alone. You 
are ill, or angry. 



scene l] the very age! 71 

Ersk. I am both, my child, and I think that, 
without extraordinary sagacity, you might guess 
the cause of the one, and the subject of the other. 

Clara. Dear father ! you cannot be angry 
with me? 

Ersk. I dare not say I cannot be, Clara : I 
may perhaps say I am not. But we may dismiss 
conjectures when we have to do with facts. You 
instructed Stephen, yesterday afternoon, to say 
you were engaged if any one called : and your 
engagement consisted in entertaining a person, 
whose visits you know I disapprove, and had re- 
solved to forbid. 

Clara. He called of his own accord, sir ; and 
was shown into the parlour. I could not send him 
out. 

Ersk. Neither, methinks, need you have fol- 
lowed him out — accompanied him to the very door : 
an act of familiarity as indelicate as it was ill-bred. 
Besides, how unworthy of yourself, how unjust to 
me, to deny all other visiters, that your interview 
with this person might be private. 

Clara. Father, you speak of the Count in a 



72 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

depreciating tone — just as if he were an ordinary 
man. 

Ersk. In what is he extraordinary ? 

Clara. In manners, conversation, universal 
accomplishments. I have never before seen so 
charming a gentleman. 

Ersk. Umph ! and what do you expect, as the 
issue of this freak? 

Clara. I admire the Count, beyond every 
thing. 

Ersk. Am I to understand that you would 
marry him ? 

Clara. I am not certain that he would mar- 
ry me. 

Ersk. I can resolve that doubt. He is cun- 
ning enough to see the advantage of such an alli- 
ance. He will certainly propose, and I shall cer- 
tainly refuse him. 

Clara. But, father — am I not to be consulted ? 

Ersk. Your true happiness is to be consulted 
— not your capricious folly. In violation of a sol- 
emn compact — and so suddenly that I cannot yet 
realize it — you have discarded a tried, worthy, ami- 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 73 

able friend : and, with the same ill-omened precip- 
itancy, you have chosen a successor, destitute, so 
far as you can know, of every quality that should 
recommend him even to your thoughts. Incon- 
ceivable as it seems, you are ready to confide to 
the guardianship of this stranger your large, lov- 
ing heart; your sum of earthly enjoyment; your 
welfare here and hereafter. I could not calmly 
see this mad hastiness of self-sacrifice in any one : 
how can I bear it in my only child % 

Clara. Father, how can you know better than 
I do, what I like? 

Ersk. Because I know your disposition and 
your nature better than you do. The instinct of 
a mother more resembles a superintending Provi- 
dence than any other faculty vouchsafed to frail 
humanity ; and I am to you father and mother 
both. 

Clara. It is the European custom for parents 
to choose their daughters' husbands. 

Ersk. I do not choose a husband for you : I 
seek, only, to oppose a rash choice of your own. 
Clara, I see it is vain to reason ; I cannot persuade ; 
4 



74 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

I would not command; let me entreat. Clara! 
my own Clara ! the happiness of our whole lives is 
at stake. Do not persist in this fatal purpose ! 

Clara. My dear father, you would forbear, if 
you knew how you distress me. Surely, I can 
judge somewhat for myself. 

Ersk. You may judge those who resemble 
yourself, for you have but to study your own heart 
to know theirs. But an artful, calculating man, is 
as far beyond your judgment as Satan was beyond 
Eve's in the garden of Eden. 

Clara. This is the extremity of injustice ! 
You assume everything unfavourable to the Count ; 
and you rate me as a child who must be blindly 
led by you to safety, or by him to ruin. ' I am but 
a puppet s in either case. 

Ersk. Clara, a feeling of estrangement and 

hostility has arisen between us, us, whose life, 

hitherto, has been one scene of confidence and love. 
A villain has brought this calamity upon us. A 
fellow with no more truth in his pretensions than 
honour in his soul, or integrity in his purpose. A 
foreign impostor, who protests his affection for you 



SCENE I. j THE VERY AGE! 75 

while lie looks only at the fortune of your father. 
A thief, who has broken into my heart, and robbed 
me of all it held dearest. Since you disregard my 
arguments, my desire, my entreaty — know this : 
if that scoundrel, after due warning, again crosses 
my threshold, I will horsewhip him as long as I 
can swing my arm. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. The Count de Bressi, Miss Erskine, is 
in the drawing-room. 

Clara. Is it possible ! This is some mistake. 
— Stephen, I am engaged. 

Ersk. No. Not engaged. Ask him if he 
will oblige me by seeing us here. 

Exit Servant. 

Clara. Father ! what do you intend to do ? 

Ersk. What is right. "What the emergency 
calls for. What this opportunity invites. Men 
who stand in the relation to each other that he and 
I do, must come to an explanation. 

Clara. I hope no violence may be used. 



76 THE VERY AGE.' [aCT III. 

Ersk. Clara, I know what I owe to myself in 
dealing with one under my own roof. For the 
rest, his conduct will be the rule of mine. 



Enter Charles Rodney. 

I have not, as yet, the pleasure of knowing you, 
sir ; but it is the custom of fathers in this country 
to desire the acquaintance of those whom their 
children know : for which reason, I took the liberty 
of inviting you into my own apartment. 

Chas. You do me great honour, and I beg to 
assure you that I appreciate it. I was so fortu- 
nate as to meet your daughter at Mrs. Rodney's 
ball, and I called to-day in the hope of being per- 
mitted to continue the acquaintance. 

Ersk. Do I understand, that this is your first 
visit at my house % 

Chas. Eh — I called for a moment last even- 
ing — but — 

Ersk. But as I was not at home, you have 
called again to-day % 

Chas. Precisely so. 



SCENE I ] THE VERY A G E ! 77 

Er.sk. (Aside.) Equivocating scoundrel ! — I 
am not far wrong, then, in considering this visit 
intended for myself? 

Chas. I am very happy in the opportunity to 
know you, and shall be flattered to have you so in- 
terpret it. 

Ersk. Under these circumstances, you will, 
perhaps, apprise me of your motive in seeking my 
acquaintance ? 

Chas. Really, sir — you are so direct — I — in 
short, being a stranger, and highly gratified by the 
kind hospitalities I, as a stranger, have received 
in America, I desire to number among my friends 
a man so estimable and so noted as Mr. Erskine. 

Ersk. Your terms are very obliging. We 
Americans are a blunt people. We seldom part 
with our friendship except for an equivalent. May 
I venture to inquire who you are ? 

Chas. A Bavarian nobleman, whose position 
at home vouches for his character abroad. 

Ersk. Any man's position at home vouches 
for his character abroad : the question here is, 
what is your position at home ? 



78 THE VERY AGE! [ACT. III. 

Chas. My letters establish that. 

Ersk. Ah, now we reach a point, where we 
might have commenced. Have you those letters 
at hand? 

Chas. Letters of introduction, Mr. Erskine, 
at least in my experience, are not used as circu- 
lars. They are addressed to individuals, and 
mine have been delivered as addressed. Fortu- 
nately, however, one of my certificates of character 
is in my pocket. It is addressed to Mr. Jobson, 
who is absent from town. ■ "Will you examine it ? — 
Your father, Miss Erskine, is very eccentric. 

Clara. He is excited — as I am. Pray, be 
temperate. It is so unfortunate that you called 
this morning. 

Chas. Shall I see you to-day at Mrs. Jen- 
kins's? 

Clara. If possible, yes. 

Ersk. Mr. de Bressi — (looking again at the 
letter) — ah, I beg pardon ; Count de Bressi ; I am 
sorry to make an unpleasant remark, but this let- 
ter is forged. 

Chas. Sir ! 

Ersk. This letter is a forgery. 



SCENE I.] THE VERY - A&e! 79 

Chas. By heaven, sir ! — 

Clara. Father ! — Count ! — ■ 

Ersk. Silence, Clara ! And you, sir ; mark 
me. By a fortunate chance — rather let me say by 
the foreordering of a kind Providence — I have been 
for years in correspondence with the gentleman 
whose name is subscribed to this letter. He sailed 
from Liverpool for India in August last, and I 
have this day received intelligence of his death on 
ship-board, 

(Erskine here takes an open letter from his table,) 

on the third day of September — two months pre- 
ceding the date here affixed. — Quit my house 
without a word : and quit the town at your earli- 
est convenience. If you remain here another 
week, on my honour I will expose you. 

Chas. Mr. Erskine ! 

Ersk. I am not a man to be trifled with. Gro ! 
before a moment of reflection incites me to some 
act of violence. You have disturbed the happiness 
of my family : you have thwarted the purpose of my 
heart : you have ruffled the placidity and sullied 



80 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

the sweetness of her character. — Begone ! If you 
give me an opportunity to repeat that word, "I 
will shake your hones out of your garments." 

Chas. Mr. Erskine, this language — here — ad- 
mits of no reply. If you desire to display your 
powers as a gladiator, choose, as least, a more fit- 
ting occasion. (Aside.) Now, mother, we will be 
conjunctive in revenge ! 

Exit Chas. Rodney. 

Ersk. Clara, gratitude — not grief — would he- 
come you now. 

Exeunt. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 81 



Mrs. JenJrins's. 
Enter Mrs. Jenkins and Tabitha. 

Mrs. J. Very true, Aunt : but I cannot un- 
derstand why you should he so interested about 
the beaux. It is very well for those who are look- 
ing out for husbands : but, of course, you have no 
notion that way. 

Tabit. Pray why not I as well as another 1 

Mrs. J. La ! what would you do with a hus- 
band? 

Tabit. Susan ! I am astonished at your 
asking such a question. It is so improper ! 

Mrs. J. Please overlook the impropriety: it 
certainly was not in my mind. But is not the 
reputation you have gained by your stoical refusal 
of a hundred offers, worth preserving'? 

Tabit. Between ourselves, my dear, I have 
4* 



82 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

gained rather more credit in that quarter than I 
deserve. I have not told you the story before ; — 
but I was engaged to lawyer Quibble, of Haver- 
straw, for better for worse, for sixteen years. It 
was for him that I refused so many brilliant offers ; 
and, after all, like a monster of ingratitude, he has 
married Rebecca Parsley, a little chit of five-and- 
twenty. 

Mrs. J. I never dreamed of such a thing. 

Tabit. Well, the river-towns are alive with 
it; and I hope it may not be all over the country 
before Christmas. But I'll be revenged on Quib- 
ble ! I'll marry the first man I meet, if it's only 
to spite him. That little upstart, Miss Parsley ! 
what is she good for, at five-and-twenty ! Manners 
unformed ; character unsettled ; mind frivolous ; 
and ugly ! — oh, sin, what a fright ! If I had the 
making of Jaws, it should be state-prison for life 
to any woman who marries before she is forty-five. 

Mrs. J. Oh, Aunt ; that would never do ! 

Tabit. I'd make it do. Not a minute under 
five-and-forty. A woman at five-and-forty has 
learned to discriminate between man and man. 
She is not to be deceived. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 83 

Mrs. J. Did not Quibble deceive you % 

Tabit. Not at all. Miss Parsley deceived him. 

Mrs. J. This morning you were complaining 
of Dr. Stubbs : didn't he deceive you yesterday at 
dinner % 

Tabit. By no means. His fickleness was 
owing to that pert Mrs. Spooney, who flirted with 
him until I was positively ashamed of her. And 
she a widow, too ! I think widows have very little 
to do, to be interfering with other people's pros- 
pects : they have had their chance. 

Mrs. J. Do you think the doctor was in ear- 
nest? 

Tabit. Child! Don't I know the sex? Haven't 
I seen men in earnest a hundred times ? I tell 
you, I should have had a proposal in two minutes 
by the watch, if that woman hadn't interfered. — 
But I haven't given him up, yet. 

Enter Charles Rodney. 
Mrs. J. Thank you, Count, for coming so 
early. 

Chas. If I come early and stay late, it is 



84 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

because you entertain in such truly European 
style. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) Flatterer ! — Have you seen 
Clara? 

Chas. (Aside.) Yes. She will be here soon. 
Mrs. Kodney is waiting for you in the hall. She 
says, it must be arranged to-day. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) I will see her immediately. 
You must entertain my Aunt for a few minutes. — 
But now, Count, if I render you this service, you'll 
forget me in a month. 

Chas. (Aside.) My dear madam — I will sooner 
forget my existence. 

Mrs. 'J. (Aloud.) Count, will you excuse me 
a moment? 

Exit Mrs. Jenkins. 

Chas. Madam, your most obedient. 

Tabit. Sir, you are very kind. A relative, sir, 
of Mrs. Jenkins. I had the pleasure to meet you 
yesterday at dinner. 

Chas. Pray, pardon me for not sooner recog- 
nizing you. A change of dress does so alter one ! 



SCENE II.J THE VERY AGE! 85 

Tabit. Do not recall that dress ! It was a 
travelling costume and not intended to be seen by 
company. I feared it would quite ruin me with 
the beaux. 

Ohas. (Aside.) The beaux ! What, is this old 
fool — hem ! Not at all, my dear madam. We gen- 
tlemen who have travelled, can tell the diamond at 
a glance, however common its setting. 

Tabit. Oh, sir ! 

Chas. Besides, your present toilette makes 
amends for any previous deficiency. Yours is one 
of those commanding figures which display bold 
colouring to the best advantage ; and your com- 
plexion makes even these roses a foil to your 
beauty. 

Tabit. (Aside.) What a love of a man ! And 
a Count, too ! Oh, my dear sir, I make no pre- 
tension to beauty. 

Chas. The very thing that lends such a grace 
to your charms. She who is aware of her beauty 5 
spreads over it a veil of conceit and affectation that 
half disguises its power. But the beauty which is 
softened by a halo of modest unconsciousness, ah, 



86 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

that is the loveliness that irradiates Earth to a 
Paradise and brings stern man to worship in 
speechless admiration at its shrine. 

Tabit. Fascinating being ! I perceive you 
have experienced the tender passion in all its ra- 
vishing intensity. How happy the object of your 
choice ! 

Chas. Alas, no ! I alone was happy ; and 
that, but for a fleeting moment. She was insensi- 
ble to my devotion. 

Tabit. Silly, stupid woman ! Pray, describe 
her. 

Chas. Words are inadequate to the task. 

But — did I not fear to offend, 1 would say, 

look in yonder mirror, and behold her counterpart. 

Tabit. Oh, Count, could I but believe you ! 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins. 

Mrs. J. (Aside.) Pie, Count ! I shall be jeal- 
ous. 

Tabit. (Aside.) Deuce take you, Susan ! He 
was just coming to a proposal. 

Chas. (Aside.) What is a man to do, when 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 87 

badgered by such a spinster? You shouldn't 
have left us alone. What says Mrs. Rodney? 

Mrs. J. (Aside*) That everything, now, de- 
pends on yourself. You must plead your own 
cause with Clara and urge an immediate marriage. 
It is your last opportunity since your quarrel with 
her father. If she has any final scruples, I will 
undertake to remove them. 

Enter Clara. 

Clara, my love, you are just in time to relieve me 
from entertaining the Count. He is desperately 
dull this morning. Aunt, about that dress- 
maker 1 

Mrs. J. and Tabitha retire up. 

Chas. I feared, Miss Erskine, that I should 
not see you here. 

Clara. I promised, you know. 

Chas. True ; but with such influences against 
me, I thought you might hesitate even to fulfil a 
promise : especially, now that I am disgraced. 



88 THE very age! [act III. 

Clara. How disgraced 1 

Chas. Did not your father put upon me terms 
that no man of honour can bear ? 

Clara. You must bear with him. He is 
hasty, for my sake : you, for my sake, will be pa* 
tient. 

Chas. I will be anything, do anything, suffer 
anything for you, dearest Clara : but consider my 
situation. A stranger, with no proof of my posi- 
tion but a few letters ; no principle to sustain me, 
but my own consciousness of rectitude ; and as^- 
sailed by a man of wealth, character, influence, who 
brands me an impostor and a villain ! 

Clara. My father will not persist in this. 

Chas. Your fond heart thinks so : but I better 
know the stubbornness of a proud man's nature. 
He is so wedded to his pride of republicanism, that 
he abhors the very name of an aristocrat. And, 
since it is my misfortune to be the eldest son of a 
Bavarian nobleman, and heir to his palace and his 
boundless estates, your father will never cease to 
hate me. 

Clara. You mistake — you mistake entirely. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 89 

It is because my father chooses to disbelieve your 
story, that he treats you thus. Can you not give 
him proofs of your truth ? 

Chas. As easily as I can bid him good morn- 
ing : but it requires time. And do you not per- 
ceive that, long before I can obtain testimony from 
Europe, his impetuosity will banish me from the 
country ? 

Clara. What, then, is to be done ? 

Chas. There is but one resource. I must fly 
— the words choke me as I utter them ! — fly to es- 
cape disgrace. 

Clara. Do not grieve so ! all will yet be well. 
But — you will not leave us? 

Chas. Alas ! how can I remain 1 How can I 
bear this weight of ignominy ? — Could I, indeed, 
be sure of — but no ! no ! I will not utter so self- 
ish a thought. 

Clara. Speak ! what is it you mean % 

Chas. My dear Clara — I left a happy home 
to travel through this beautiful land. I was re- 
ceived with the kindest hospitality by your best 
people. In the midst of the fashionable throng, I 



90 T HE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

find a lady of surpassing loveliness whose beauty 
inspires me, literally at first sight, with a passion 
deep as the sea, changeless as -the stars, and pure 
as the ether that floats between them. But while 
I am yet in the wild intoxication of this first love, 
a threatening voice warns me from the enchanted 
scene. Not a threat of personal violence ; that I 
should despise : but my reputation is threatened. 
Even this, I might brave, could I brave it alone. 
But now that your generosity consents to be inter- 
ested in my welfare, and I am therefore led to see 
that you would suffer in my disgrace, I am bound 
as a gentleman to adopt the alternative : — I must 
leave you immediately and forever. 

Clara. Charles ! Charles ! — I am imprudent 
— I am rash — I am forgetting myself — but, do not 
leave me ! 

Chas. It is easy to say that : but how am I 
to endure the ignominy of remaining ? 

Clara. The ignominy will not ensue : — or, if 
it does, Charles — limit share it with you ! 

Chas. Dear Clara ! This noble devotion is more 
touching than any direct assurance of love. Yet I 



SCENE II.] THE VERY A G E ! 91 

were ten times a villain, could I take advantage 
of your generous self-abandonment. — A thought 
strikes me ! Your father loves you ? 

Clara. As his own life. 

Chas. He would not make you wretched? 

Clara. 'Twere against nature to suppose it. 

Chas. If. then — forgive me — if we were mar- 
ried 

Clara. Charles ! 

Chas. If we were first married, and I could 
afterward convince him of my integrity % 

Clara. Were it possible to convince him ? 

Chas. Nothing more easy. Now I think of 
it, yes ! certainly ! I shall have letters from my 
father by the next steamer, the very tone of which 
must convince an unprejudiced mind. 

Clara. I am desperate — I am standing on 
the verge of an abyss — I — where is Mrs. Jenkins 1 

Mrs. J. (coming fonvard.) Here, my love. 

Clara. My friend — my father's friend — my 
mother's earliest friend — counsel me ! The Count 
has avowed his preference for me — his — why should 
I fear to speak it 1 his passion — his devoted love. 



92 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

But, my father — you have heard? Well: the 
Count must fly to escape my father's injustice, 
unless — unless — my father can be forced as it were 
to treat him with the consideration he deserves. 

Mrs. J. My dear, I see it all. I know it all. 
Your father is mad. Such another match is not 
to be met with in one's life time. 

Clara. My father is blinded by prejudice ; 
and while under its guidance, he may do some act 
of irreparable mischief. 

Mrs. J. Then there is but one sure remedy. 
Your father will never make you miserable by 
wronging your husband. — You must marry him ! 

Clara. Oh, I dare not ! 

Mrs. J. It is but an every-day occurrence. 
You read it in every novel : you see it in every 
play : you meet it at every turn in society. Be- 
sides, I will give the ceremony my sanction ; and, 
hereafter, your father will thank me for it. Let 
me send for Doctor Prosey and have it concluded 
immediately. 

Clara. Do you give me this advice ? 

Mrs. J. To be sure I do. Your father re- 



SCENE II.] THE VERY A G E ! 93 

fuses a nobleman on principle : and the moment 
the nobleman is his son-in-law, he, on principle, 
will be reconciled to his good fortune. Come into 
this parlour. I will give you further reasons, and 
send for the clergyman while you are making up 
your mind. 

Exeunt Mrs. J. and Clara. 



Chas. There ! I natter myself I played that 
hand according to Hoyle ; and, if I don't win the 
game now, the devil is in it. She is an exquisite 
creature ; and, by heaven ! I would not so abuse 
her confidence if her father had not so abused me. 
I have a misgiving, too, about my mother. She 
hajs a purpose in this marriage which she withholds 
from me. Let me consider. 

Tabit. {coining forivard.) Count, were you in 
earnest 1 

Chas. Never more so in my life. 

Tabit. Do you find me so like her? 

Chas. You ! like her ! — oh, I forgot: certain- 
ly : the very image of my adored Sophronia. 



94 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

Tabit. Then, you dear, sweet, lovely man, take 

the long-coveted treasure to your expecting arms. 

Chas. But — madam — you will be discovered. 

Enter Mrs. Rodney. 

Mrs. R. My dear Count ! another ! are you 
going to establish a seraglio 1 That sentimental 
young lady looks more like your mother than your 
mistress. 

Tabit. Same to yourself, madam ! The Count 
and I understand each other. 

Mrs. R. If you do not, my dear, it is high 
time you did. [Aside.) Has Clara consented? 

Chas. [Aside.) So nearly that you may con- 
sider it done. Mrs. Jenkins has sent for the par- 
son. 

Mrs. R. He is here. He came in this mo- 
ment. Such news is almost too good to be true. 

Tabit. What news is that ? 

Mrs. R. Haven't you heard, my dear? Vic- 
toria has another baby. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 95 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins. 

Mrs. J. Victoria is what I came to announce. 

Count, a friend awaits you in the adjoining room. 

Exeunt Mrs. J. and Charles. 

Tabit. What does all this mean ? 

Mrs. R. Can you keep a secret ? 

Tabit. Just like a vice. 

Mrs. R. Very good. The Count has made 
proposals. 

Tabit. To be sure he has. I know that as 
well as another. 

Mrs. R . Ay, but to the young lady, 
-Tabit. Eh — yes — I know it. 

Mrs. R. The young lady in the next room. 

Tabit. I don't believe it — I don't believe one 
word of it. 

Enter Miss Larkins. 

Mrs. R. Good morning, Miss Larkins. I am 
glad you have called. Mrs. Jenkins has prepared 
a surprise for us. 



96 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

Miss L. Delightful ! What is it 1 

Mrs. R. A runaway match. 

Miss L. No ! 

Mrs. R. Fact, upon my word. 

Miss L. Do tell me : who is it % 

Me,s. R. The Count de Bressi and Clara 
Erskine. 

Tabit. I see it now ! Fool that I was ! I 
shall faint ! I shall expire ! I shall drop down 
dead ! I forbid the bans ! I forbid the bans ! 

She rushes to the sliding-doers and throws them 
open ; discovering a clergyman ; Mrs. Jenkins, 
and Charles Rodney giving Clara the bridal 
kiss. 

I forbid the bans ! 

Mrs. J. It is too late, Aunt. The knot is 
tied. 

Tabit. Monster ! false, treacherous villain ! 
I'll sue you for damages. 

Chas. Don't take that trouble, aunty. You 
have sued me quite enough already : stay proceed' 
ings, and I'll pay all the damages. 



scene il] the very age! 97 

Tabit. Villain ! 

Mrs. J. Now, Clara, my love, courage ! I will 
go with you to your father and tell him the news. 

Clara. Oh, my friend ! what will he say ? 

Tabit. Ay, you may well ask that, you saucy 
forward minx ! I, too, will go to your father. I'll 
be of that party. 

Mrs. J. Aunt, you forget yourself. — Fear 
nothing, my love. Your father will be as happy 
as the rest of us, now he can't help himself. 

Exeunt all but Chas. and Mrs. It. 

Chas. Mother, when a man signs a bond for 
his friend, or takes a wife for himself, he has good 
reason to be alarmed at the responsibility he as- 
sumes. But, in this case, it is you who are agi- 
tated. 

Mrs. It. The suddenness and, so far, the com- 
pleteness of my triumph, almost overpower me. 

Chas. Triumph so far, good mother ? How 
much farther would you carry it % 

Mrs. It. Umph ! one step farther- — the final 
step ! 

5 



98 THE VERY AGE! [ACT III. 

Chas. This is a day of surprises and myste- 
ries: I don't understand. (Aside.) Hold! by 
heaven, perhaps I do understand ! 

Mrs. E. Come to me to-morrow, and you shall 
know what I know. 

Chas. (Aside.) Aha ! I must put this to the 
proof. Eh, — meantime, I suppose the injunction 
on my left-glove is removed. I can take it off? 

Mrs. R. For the love of God, no ! not for 
your life ! 

Chas.« Good lord, mother ! you frighten me. 

Mrs. R. By all that is sacred in love and 
sweet in vengeance, — promise me not to remove 
that glove to-day — at least, in Erskine's presence. 

Chas. (Aside.) So, so ! — It's a promise, — "but 
remember : no secrets after to-day. 

Mrs. R. Be it so. You shall know all in the 
morning. Good-bye, Charles. I rely on you. 

Exit Mrs. Rodney. 

Chas. And I now rely on myself ! Mother, 
you are as vindictive as the arch-enemy, but you 
have the cunning only of his imps. I have your 



SCENE II.] THE VERY A G E ! 99 

secret — thank God ! I have your secret ; and I 
have it in time ! And what a secret ! What a 
determined purpose ! What an infernal revenge ! 
It is balked, though, even at its crisis ! How it 
may fare with me — how I am to extricate myself 
from this dilemma, is a problem indeed ! But — ■ 
my sister is saved I 

Exit, 



END OF ACT THIRD. 



ACT FOURTH. 

SCENE I. 

Erskinds Drawing-room. 

Enter Erskine and Frederick. 

Ersk. My dear boy, it is because we have 
kmg been on such terms of intimacy as might ex- 
ist between father and son, that I can speak to you 
on this subject at all. It is no light thing for a 
parent to plead the cause of his daughter to a lover 
whom she has discarded : but I know you will ap- 
preciate my motives, as I think you can truly 
estimate her inconsiderate folly. My unmasking 
this impostor will, doubtless, cure her caprice. 
But, even then, Frederick, I know she must fall 
greatly in your regard. Yet, let me hope that 
you will visit us as before ? You will not aban- 



SCENE I.J THE VERY AGE! 101 

don my child, although she has deserved it at your 
hands ? 

Fred. My dear Mr. Erskine, deeply as I have 
been wounded by Clara's ill treatment, I am even 
more grieved to see how it distresses you. — Be 
content. I will visit you as before. And if, in 
time, Clara can forget the past, I will have nothing 
to forgive. 

Eb.sk. My noble friend ! I made sure that I 
could rely on your generosity. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Mrs. Jenkins, sir, and another lady, 
with Miss Erskine, desire to know if you are par- 
ticularly engaged. 

Ersk. I am quite at leisure, Stephen. Beg 
them to walk in. 

Exit Servant. 

Fred. I had better withdraw. 

Ersk. As you will, Frederick. I have your 

promise. 

Exit Frederick. 



102 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins, Tabitha and Clara. 
Mrs. Jenkins, you are so much of a stranger at 
my house, I must give you a ceremonious wel- 
come. — Madam, your servant. 

Mrs. J. My aunt, Mr. Erskine. 

Ersk. Ah, from Tarrytown 1 You are wel- 
come to New York. Clara, my love, have you 
been out this morning % 

Clara. Yes — sir 

Tabit. Gro on Miss ! tell your story, if you 
dare to tell it. 

Clara. It seems to me that I shall die ! 

Tabit. Never believe it ! people don't die so 
easily. 

Ersk. What is the meaning of this, Clara ? 
Pray, be quiet, madam ; the bold assurance of your 
tone is intolerable at this moment. 

Tabit. Oh, very well ; just as you please, sir. 
But I fancy I am the only one from whom you are 
likely to get the truth. 

Ersk. Ha ! what, in heaven's name, is the 
truth? 

Tabit. Your daughter is married. 



scene l] the very age! 103 

Ersk. There is an indication of some catas- 
trophe in this silence and confusion. Married, do 
you say ? When % How 1 Where ? By whom 1 
To whom ? 

Tabit. I cannot answer all these questions in 
a breath ; but the happy man is the Count de 
Bressi. 

Ersk. {violently seizing Clara.) So help me 
G-od. if this is true 

Mrs. J. Mr. Erskine ! help ! 

Tabit. Help ! help ! 

Mrs. J. What is the wretch going to do % 

Ersk. {still grasping Clara?) Her mother's 
image — my own heart's idol- — pale as death itself — 
her sweetness and helplessness unman me. There, 
my child ! do not sob ; do not weep : — ring, some 
of you ; call the maid-servants : — hush ; hush ; my 
little pet : my own darling : there ; there ; there. 

Enter Servants. 
Take her to her room, and remain with her. Send 
for the doctor. G-ently : gently. 

Servants take Clara out. 



104 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Madam, you have been long known, and it is 
your miserable ambition to be known, as a match- 
maker. I presume I am indebted to you for this 
morning's handiwork? 

Mrs. J. Mr. Erskine, you are the strangest 
man I ever knew. You half kill your daughter by 
violence, and now you have nothing for it but to 
insult an old friend by abuse. 

Ersk. Friendship like yours, Mrs. Jenkins, 
would meet its fitting associates in hell : and the 
office you undertake has its origin where your 
friendship finds its home. You would dive into the 
heart and profane the secrets that dwell between 
its possessor and its God: and those gentle im- 
pulses of the soul that heaven has implanted there 
to seek their own likings by a preternatural in- 
stinct, you would tamper with and overrule, and 
adapt to your own notions of expediency, that you 
may match human beings in matrimony as horses 
are matched in harness. No feeling of delicacy, 
no sense of shame restrains you. You do the 
dirty work of society ; and there is no class of so- 
ciety but is elevated enough to despise you for your 
r>ains. 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 105 

Mrs. J. Come, Aunt. We have listened long 
enough to this vulgar person. 

Tabit. Upon my word, he talks beautifully. 
Well, if you are going — good morning, sir : I as- 
sure you, I did my best to prevent this. 

Exeunt Mrs. Jenkins and Tabitha. 

Ersk. What avail wealth, position, character, 
against the devastating breath of calamity 1 They 
are but so many elevations in the landscape of life, 
which catch the first blast of the whirlwind and 
reel lowest beneath its fury. The level of insig- 
nificance is the safest refuge from the storm. 

Enter Dr. Stuebs. 
Doctor, this is very kind of you. 

Doct. S. My dear friend, I was coming to you 
when I received your message. I had just seen 
Mrs. Rodney and learned the particulars. 

Ersk. Ha ! Mrs. Rodney ! 

Doct. S. It was not her doing. It was at 
Mrs. Jenkins's reception. Mrs. Rodney chanced 
to call just as the ceremony was concluded. 
5* 



106 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Ersk. You have seen Clara ? — How is she % 

Doct. S. More composed than at first. 

Ersk. There is no doubt of the truth of this 
story 1 

Doct. S. None whatever. Doctor Prosy ofii- 
ciated. 

Ersk. The heartless scoundrel ! I took that 
man a cabin-boy from a steamboat : educated him : 
endowed him : and he has not hesitated to join in 
this robbery of my life. Mrs. Jenkins, too ! you 
know the extent of her obligations. But this is 
my invariable experience : my worst enemies are 
those who are most indebted to me.— It is trifling 
to dwell on these aggravations of a wound, when 
the wound itself reaches from my heart to my 
brain and racks every sense with agony. Doctor 5 
it is more than I can bear. 

Doct. S. I will not attempt to minister to 
your grief: it is beyond the power of sympathy : it 
will have its course ; and you must bow before it. 
But, my dear Erskine, this is a world in which 
joys and sorrows, responsibilities and duties are 
intermingled. The most overpowering grief must 
give place to our social obligations. 



SCENE I. j THE VERY AGE! 107 

Ersk. You would have me go upon 'Change 
and mingle with men, as if I had a heart in my 
bosom? — as if I had any thing to live for? — I 
cannot do it. 

Doct. S. You need not. But you must not 
absent yourself from the world. You must not 
neglect the new duties that devolve upon you. — 
Clara will need your counsel and aid more than 
ever. 

Ersk. True : true : true. 

Doct. S. She has no mother ; nor any, but 
you, who can act in a mother's place. If her 
husband — I know : I know : this chafes you to 
madness. But we must look truth in the face : 
nothing is gained by shutting our eyes to it. — If 
her husband prove kind and attentive, why, as the 
world goes. Clara might have done worse, and the 
case is not desperate. 

Ersk. The wretch is an impostor. His let- 
ters are forged, 

Doct. S. Is it possible ! 

Ersk. I say it, of my own knowledge. 

Doct. S. This is a dreadful truth ! have you 
.it? 



108 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Ersk. Only to Frederick. 

Doct. S. Then bury the secret- To divulge 
it, would harm you more than him. And who 
knows ? By virtue of his good fortune, he may 
acquit himself reputably yet. 

Ersk. Never. A man obscure and honest, may 
stumble upon fortune and remain honest ; but he 
who, with deliberate purpose, undertakes a fraud 
and enters society with a lie in his right hand, what 
can we hope from him ? 

Doct. S. In this case, we must hope. If he 
has obtained Clara's affections — which he must 
have done — you but crush her by crushing him : 
so that the security of your own peace lies in your 
making the best of this. Reconcile yourself to it, 
outwardly at least ; and every fool of the fashiona- 
ble world will long for that which you wish to re- 
pudiate. They were all in full chase after this 
lord ; and the lord knows he might have had his 
choice among them. You have what they desire ; 
they envy you with all their hearts, and you, there- 
fore, occupy the very pinnacle of their regard : once 
fall to the degradation of their pity, and you are a 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE.' 109 

gone man. This is philosophical nonsense, but it 
is also worldly wisdom ; and while we are in the 
world, we must conform to some of its follies, or, be 
overborne by them. In short, this is a misfortune, 
to be endured like other misfortunes, with manly 
fortitude : any other course is madness. 

Ersk. My judgment approves your counsel : — 
but my heart rebels. 

Doct. S. It will do so, now : but grief must 
yield to time. 

Ersk. Unless more calamities follow in the 
train of this. — Suppose he is unkind to her ? 

Doct. S. Leave forebodings to the future. 

The present has cares enough for the best and the 

happiest. 

(rings.) 

I am going to send for Clara. 

Ersk. Doctor — you are pressing me too far. 

Enter Servant. 

Doct. S. Stephen, request Miss Erskine to step 

here. 

Exit Servant. 



110 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

You have chosen me as a counsellor : and, though I 
possess no superhuman wisdom, I insist on your 
being guided by me to the end. 

Enter Clara. 

Clara, my child, I am endeavouring to console your 
father under a dreadful affliction ; but I need your 
assistance. 

He leads Clara toward her father. She stands 
passive at Erskine's side for a moment : then 
she seizes his hand and kneels to him. Erskine 
at first stands firm : after a time, he turns, and 
raises her. 

Ersk. You do not remember your mother, 
Clara ? You were three years old when she died. 
I thought, then, I had nothing to live for. Yet 
you were left : and when I saw the lost one gradu- 
ally return to me in the remaining one, I became 
quieted, consoled, happy. — Another misfortune has 
now overtaken me ; and, this time, I have no little 
Clara to relieve my aching heart. 



SCENE I.] THE VERY A&e! Ill 

Clara. Father ! — forgive me, even if you kill 
me ! 

Ersk. My child, we are in God's hands, and it 
is His will that we should live in peace and har- 
mony. I bring no accusation : I utter no reproach ; 
at another time, you may explain how my impetu- 
osity drove you to — well, no matter ! I forgive 
you and I wish you to forgive yourself My kind 
friend has made me see the duties and the necessi- 
ties of my position. — Do you — love — oh, how this 
tries my purpose ! — do you love the man you have 
married ? 

Clara. Not wronging you, papa — with my 
whole heart. 

Ersk. And you believe he loves you % 

Clara. He has protested it by the most sol- 
emn assurances, and his conduct corroborates his 
words. 

Ersk. Heaven grant that you may be right, 
and I deceived ! To sum all in a word — tell him — ■ 
tell him that I am eccentric, impetuous, unsocial — 
but that my house must be his home, — I cannot 
live without you. 



112 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Clara. Papa, this kindness is almost as pain- 
ful as your anger. 

Ersk. Will you walk with me, doctor? I 

must have air. Clara, my love, you have long 

been my house-keeper : be now mistress of my 

house. I am henceforth your guest : but always 

your father : always your father : always your 

father. 

Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 
Mrs. Jenkins's. 

Enter Tabitha. 

Tabit. It's little good these people will get by 
getting married — that's one comfort. The Count 
will soon find what these boarding-school Misses 
are good for. Besides, won't he catch it, when he 
comes to show his face to his father-in-law ? Serves 
him right ! to trifle with my feelings in such an 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 113 

unprincipled manner. Eh ! here he comes with 
Susan. I wonder what is in the wind now? An- 
other secret, most likely. I'll find it out in season 
this time ; for I'll hide in this recess and listen. 

Exit Tabitha. 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins and Charles. 

Mrs. J. Positively, you are the most gallant 
gentleman I ever knew. 

Chas. Nay, this is not gallantry ; but a sim- 
ple expression of gratitude for your kindness. 

Mrs. J. Well, if you will have it so, there's 
my hand : — but you must not kiss it so loud. 

Chas. My dear Mrs. Jenkins, if my gratitude 

is to be measured by my caresses, they will not 

stop at the hand. 

{offers to kiss her lips.) 

Mrs. J. Oh, Count ! on your wedding day ! 
What would the Countess say % 

Chas. Countess 1 Egad, that's true : she is a 
Countess, sure enough. What the Countess ivould 
say, is neither here nor there. I trust we are alone ? 



114 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Mrs. J. G-ood gracious ! I believe so : why ? 
Chas. I have a secret for you. 
Mrs. J. Good : what is it ? 
Chas. You needn't be jealous of the Countess. 
Mrs. J. Why not 1 

Chas. I thought I heard a noise. I see no 
one. But, as walls have ears, I will whisper it. 

{whispers her a moment, and 
ends by kissing her.) 

Mrs. J. Count, I shall be offended. I shall, 
indeed. As to your secret, I can only say, — 
pshaw ! 

Chas. It's true, upon my honour. 

Mrs. J. Pooh ! pooh ! such a thing was never 
heard of. 

Chas. Not the less true on that account. I 
give you my word, I shall never know whether the 
Countess is — I'll be sworn, I heard a noise. 

Mrs. J. Nothing but whispers of your con- 
science. 

Chas. Oh, if you talk of conscience, I have a 

ready answer. 

(attempts to kiss her.) 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 115 

Mrs. J. Hush ! 

Tabit. (coming forward.) Hush ! hush ! hush ! 

Chas. Good heavens ! Mrs. Pippin ! 

Tabit. Hush ! hush ! hush ! 

Mrs. J. Aunt, when did you come in % 

Tabit. Hush ! hush ! hush ! — " I have a se- 
cret for you. You needn't be jealous of t/ie Count- 
ess /" Pray, sir, how many ladies are sufficient for 
one lord ? 

Chas. Upon my word, you quite overpower 
me. Consider my feelings. 

Tabit. Your feelings, you brute ! What do 
you think of my feelings? A halter would be 
too good for you. And you, too, Susan ! Shame ! 
shame ! But I'll expose you. 

Chas. No ! 

Tabit. I will. 

Chas. What will you do % 

Tabit. I'll make New-York ring with it. 

Chas. With what? 

Tabit. That you kissed Mrs. Jenkins. 

Chas. Add one thing to the story and nobody 
will believe you. 



116 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Tabit. What is that? 
Chas. Tell the people — 

{catches her around the neck and 
kisses her tremendously.) 

Tell the good people. Aunty, that I kissed you at 

the same time. 

Exit Charles. 

Tabit. Help ! murder ! what a monster ! 

Mrs. J. What a wretch ! 

Tabit. What a villain ! 

Mrs. J. What a ruffian ! 

Tabit. You needn't talk, Susan. 

Mrs. J. Nor you, I am sure, Aunt. I never 
saw a man kiss so outrageously in my life : it's 
positively scandalous : — ha ! ha! ha ! ha ! I really 
thought the man was going to eat you alive. But 
don't be alarmed, Aunt. I'll never mention it : 
I'll never say a word about it : — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Tabit. Susan, you are the most brazen hussy 

I ever saw in my life. I — really — I shall leave 

the room. 

Exit Tabitha. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 117 

Mrs. J. You couldn't go in a better time, my 
dear ; for here comes Mrs. Spooney. 

Enter Mrs. Spooney. 

Mrs. Sp. Mrs. Jenkins, I have a great mind 
never to speak to you again. 

Mrs. J. Why, my dear, what is the matter 
with you 1 

Mrs. Sp. To think that you would not give 
me even a hint of this match ! 

Mrs. J. To tell you the truth, we got it up 
so suddenly, I hardly knew it myself. Besides, if 
I had advertised my project, don't you perceive it 
might have reached Mr. Erskine's ears, and thus 
have been defeated altogether ? 

Mrs. Sp. I don't think Mr. Erskine would 
have gone much out of his way, to defeat such a 
project ! 

Mrs. J. Don't you ! You ought to have heard 
him compliment me for my share in it. I never 
saw a man in such a rage. 

Mrs. Sp. Well, he is bravely over it. He has 
made up with Clara, invited the Count to his 



118 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

house ; and the Count's trunks are now at his 
door. 

Mrs. J. You astonish me ! 

Mrs. Sp. I see nothing astonishing in it. Mr. 
Erskine has consented to be reconciled to the first 
match in the country. If he was angry, it is only 
because the thing was done without his help. 

Mrs. J. Isn't Clara lucky ? 

Mp.s. Sp. Very ; but I doubt if the Count 
cares for her. 

Mrs. J. I am sure he doesn't. 

Mrs. Sp. How should you know ? 

Mrs. J. I, indeed ! I have been in his confi- 
dence all along. 

Mpv.s. Sp. You in his confidence ! Yery likely ! 

Mrs. J. Don't be jealous, Mrs. Spooney : it's 
an exceedingly unbecoming passion. 

Mrs. Sp. Don't flatter yourself, my dear, that 
I shall be jealous of you with the Count. He and 
I understand each other. 

Mrs. J. I presume you think so, my dear. 
He told me he would make you think so. 

Mrs. Sp. He told me that he had made you 
think so. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 119 

Mrs. J. Mrs. Spooney, I have to remark, that 
is not true. 

Mrs. Sp. Well, that's civil ! But I can par- 
don you, my dear, considering how you have been 
duped. There, now, is something that speaks for 
itself: a ruby-ring that was given to the Count by 
the princess-royal of Bavaria. 

(shoivs a ring.) 

Mrs. J. And by the said Count presented to 
Mrs. Jenkins of New-York. 

(shows a similar ring!) 

Very like, isn't it % ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Sp. I don't see much to laugh at. 

Mrs. J. Nor I. It strikes me that we are 
both in a ridiculous predicament : and the more \J 
prudently we keep our own counsel, the better. I 
begin to suspect that these noblemen, though suffi- 
ciently exclusive in rank, are rather promiscuous 
in privilege. 

Exeunt, 



120 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

SCENE III. 

Erskinds Drawing-room. 

Enter Erskine and Clara. 

Ersk. My dear daughter, it is needless to 
speak of your husband's ignorance of American 
customs. A man who has to learn what he disre- 
gards, has never been familiar with refined society 
any where. On this, his wedding-day, after ma- 
king this house his home, he absents himself from 
dinner ; and now, at ten o'clock in the evening, he 
is absent still. 

Clara. Papa, I am at a loss for words alto- 
gether. I cannot meet your objections without of- 
fending your pride. I am very unhappy. 

Ersk. This must not be, Clara. You and 
yours must be at ease and at home in this house. 
I have no other home ; and discord here would 
banish me from the earth. Let us both learn to 
bear and forbear. 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 121 

Enter Mrs. Spriggins. 

Mrs. S. Clara, my love, you must forgive the 
liberty I take in making an evening call. 

Clara. We are always happy to see you, Mrs. 
Spriggins. 

Ersk:. You are serious, I suppose, in apolo- 
gising for a visit at the only time in the twenty- 
four hours when a visit has any value ? 

Mrs. S. My dear sir ! Evening visiting, by 
common consent, has been banished from good 
society these twenty years at least. 

Ersk. Then for twenty years, in my opinion, 
good society has been good for nothing. Pray, 
what are the duties and occupations of good so- 
ciety as now established in New-York ? 

Mrs. S. They are very simple. We leave 
cards upon our friends once a-year. Once in a 
week, we have receptions, when our friends call and / 
talk of the weather and the fashions for ten min- 
utes. We accept invitations to balls four times in 
a week, and as much oftener as we can get them. 
Preparations for these occupy us from breakfast at 
6 



122 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

eleven o'clock until half-past ten in the evening. 
And when we get to the halls, we say how d'ye do 1 
— stand, push, squeeze around hot and crowded 
rooms, look at the children dancing, and are too 
happy when supper is announced. We go to the 
Opera three times in a week, where we see every 
body and learn and retail all the scandal of the 
day. We go to church of a Sunday morning in 
the fashionable season, provided the weather is 
good and the coachman disposed. And, finally, 
we go to the theatre whenever a dancer is an- 
nounced who can swing her foot above the top of 
her head. Thus, you see, evening visiting, among 
the real quality, is quite out of the question. And, 
now, if my apology for breaking my own rule is 
sufficient, allow me to congratulate you, my dear 
Clara, on your brilliant alliance. 

Clara. You are very kind. 

Mrs. S. Do you know, Mr. Erskine, that I 
suspect you, with your obstinate republican notions, 
are not more than half pleased with this match 1 

Ersk. How can you doubt my gratification 
at any thing which makes Clara happy ? 



SCENE III. j THE VERY AGE? 123 

Mrs. S. But, bless me ! all tins while, where 
is the Count? 

Clara. He has gone out. 

Ersk. Yes — he is not at home. 

Mrs. S. (Aside.) I see : trouble already ! — 
Grive my love to him, Clara : and tell him, if his 
wife has not made a good bargain, he has. Now, 
pray, pardon this atrociously long visit, and don't 
tell any of our circle that I was here of an eve- 
ning at all. 

Exit Mrs. Spriggins. 

Ersk. That is one of the best specimens of 
her class, for I believe there is nothing morally 
wrong about her, and she has sense enough to be 
half ashamed of the career she follows. "What a 
farce is her whole life on her own showing ! But 
what most vexes me in these fashionables, is their 
arrogance toward respectable people out of their 
circle, and their toleration of vice within it. The 
woman who has no character to lose — and there are 
such among our exclusives — if she but belongs to 
" the set" and is " received," is the dear friend of 



124 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

every member of this select community. Want of 
character is nothing : want of caste is every thing. 
Rely on it, Clara, there is in society an interme- 
diate stratum — under the froth and above the 
dregs — which contains all that is really good in the 
whole compound. — Clara, it is eleven o'clock. 

Clara. Now, papa ! 

Er.sk. I made no comment, my child ; but, 

lest I should make one that is disagreeable — good 

night. 

Exit Erskine. 

Clara. Were I not sure that my father's pre- 
judice would give place to the result of his future 
observation, I should be wretched indeed ! 

Enter Charles Rodney. 

Chas. What, Clara, still waiting 1 

Clara. Waiting, Charles ! 

Chas. I said, waiting. I made sure you would 
be asleep before this time. 

Clara. You told me, it might be eleven be- 
fore you came home. 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 125 

Chas. Child ! could you not understand by 
that, I wished no one to sit up for me ? 

Clara. I understood nothing, Charles, but 
your plain words — and your words, now, seem so 
strange ! 

Chas. Pardon me, my lovely Countess, — but I 
have passed the evening with friends who pledge 
nothing but. bumpers, and — I am a little confused. 
Nay, you are not going to be angry 1 

Clara. Charles, you frighten me ! My father 
thinks your conduct improper and unkind — and I 
think so too. 

Chas. Remember, my little queen, that it is 
bad taste to quote a father against a husband. I 
didn't marry him, you know. 

(kisses her hand.) 

There, there ; don't pout : but go to your room. I 
have such a head-ache, I will sleep on this sofa. 
Good night. » 

Clara. Grood night. It seems a pity, Charles, 
that you came home at all. 

Exit Clara. 



126 THE VERY AGE! [ACT IV. 

Chas. Married to my sister : son-in-law to my 
own father : and both wishing me at the devil. 
One, because I have done a wrong with my eyes 
shut ; the other, because I refuse a wrong with my 
eyes open. How I am to manage this little affair, 
passes all the present invention of my philosophy. 
As Richard says, 

" Here will I lie to-night : but where, to-morrow 1" 

Egad ! the whole thing is more like a play than a 
reality. Yet I am I. This is a sofa. And up 
stairs is my unlawful wife in a towering passion. 

(he lies down.) 

Good night, every body ! Pleasant dreams : but 
look out for breakers to-morrow ! 



END OF ACT FOURTH. 



ACT FIFTH. 

SCENE I. 

ErskMs Draiving-room. 

Enter Erskine. 

Eusk. My forebodings were but too well-foun- 
ded. He has thrust himself into my little Para- 
dise and destroyed its peace forever. — Can it be — 
the thought has flashed across my mind — can it be 
that Mrs. Rodney had an agency in this? It is" 
like her work. The curse is such as she would call 
down. She warned me that my refusal to marry 
her should cost me more than life — and the pre- 
monitions of such a penalty are on me ! How am 
I to school myself to meet this man and so to treat 
him as to maintain my compact with my daughter % 



128 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 



Enter Clara. 

Clara. Good morning, papa. Are you not 
well, sir? 

Ersk. I slept but little, my child. — Where 
is — 

Clara. In the conservatory, Stephen says. 
He will be here in a moment. 

Ersk. Is the breakfast served % 

Clara. Not yet, sir. 

Enter Charles Rodney. 

Chas. Good morning, Clara. Good morning, 
Mr. Erskine. I hope I have not kept you waiting ? 

Ersk. Not at all : not at all. Our breakfast 
is not yet ready. You Europeans, I believe, do 
not relish our substantial American breakfasts ? 

Chas. Oh, I became accustomed to them in 
the West-Indies. 

Ersk. In ? 

Chas. In the West-Indies. 

Ersk. Have you resided in the West-Indies? 



SCENE I ] THE VERY A G E ! 129 

Chas. I was born there. 

Ek.sk. Is it possible ! 

Chas. My father removed from there many 
years ago : but I have often revisited the scenes of 
my childhood. 

Ersk. Eh — I beg your pardon — what part of 
the West Indies'? 

Chas. The island of Jamaica. 

Ersk. Kingston 1 

Chas." In and near Kingston. Were you ever 
there ? 

Ersk. Yes — many years ago. 

Clara. Charles, you have a habit that puz- 
zles me. 

Chas. What is it? Pray, use no ceremony 
with me. 

Clara. You always wear your left-glove : is 
it a fashion 1 

Chas. Not at all. It's my superstition. 

Clara. How so ? 

Chas. I have a curiously mutilated finger; 
and my mother always told me my good fortune 
would cease, if I allowed strangers to see it. 
6* 



130 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Clara. We are not strangers ; nor are we su- 
perstitious. Take off your glove. 

Chas. What say you, Mr. Erskine 1 

Ersk I may reply, with Hamlet : " We defy 
augury ; for there is a special providence in the 
fall of a sparrow." 

Chas. Good bye, then, superstition. 

(he takes off his glove.) 

Clara. How curious ! What is that on your 
hand above the fingers % 

Chas. A strawberry. 

Ersk. Great God ! 

Clara. Dear father ! 

Chas. My dear sir ! 

Ersk. It's nothing — ha ! ha ! ha ! — it's only 
my superstition ! Was that caused by an acci- 
dent? Do you remember when it happened? 

Chas. It has been there from my infancy — so 
my mother told me. 

Ersk. Your mother — is she living ? 

Chas. Yes ; and almost at my elbow. 

Ersk. In heaven's name, what do you mean ? 



SCENE I.] THE VERY AGE! 131 

Chas. The steamers arrive so often, and make 
their trips so rapidly, one's friends in Europe are 
almost like one's neighbours in an adjoining street. 

Ersk. True ! Strange, how a familiar fact 
sometimes startles one ! Is your father living? 

Chas. He is ; and in excellent health. I 
should be delighted to have him know you as my 
father — in-law. 

Ersk. Clara, my love, you will excuse me. I 
have an early engagement down town. Grood morn- 
ing. (Aside.) If this catastrophe has a still deep- 
er abyss of horror, I must fathom it and die ! 

Exit Erskine. 

Chas. A very eccentric gentleman, upon my 
word ! Clara, my love, is papa often thus ? 

Clara. My father is very unhappy — and so 
am I. 

Chas. My dearest Clara ? 

Clara. Charles, — actions, not words, make 
up the reality of life : and your terms of en- 
dearment, after your recent conduct, are but in- 
sults to my understanding. I will say nothing in 



132 THE VERY AGE.' [ACT V. 

extenuation of my own sacrifice of delicacy, prin- 
ciple, duty, in consenting to a clandestine mar- 
riage : but I will ask if you are the one to make 
me regret my imprudence and curse my folly ? 

Chas. There is a deal of force in what you 
say, Clara ; and what you say, you say remarkably 
well. But the truth is, when I married you, I did 
not know exactly what I was doing. 

Clara. I am not so fallen in my own estima- 
tion, sir, as to submit to language intended to be 

insulting. 

Exit Clara. 

Chas. Well ! if ever I marry my sister again, 
for the sake of a position in society — hang me : 
that's all. I am conducting myself like a pirate 
to that dear girl, because I am totally at a loss 
what to do. I will go to my mother — Heaven for- 
give me if I forget she is my mother ! — and from 
her I may learn something that, in her despite, I 
can turn to good account. At least, I have now 
an honest motive to guide me. 

Exit. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 133 

SCENE II. 

Mrs. Rodney's. 

Enter Mrs. Rodney. 

Mrs. R. This is a notable victory ! Each 
party is so entangled that he cannot betray any one 
of his associates : and he who is the chief victim 
must bear his fate in silence. What can Erskine 
do, when he knows the fall extent of his calamity? 
Will he sacrifice his own son ? Will he expose his„ 
implication with me % Will he allow Clara's ruin 
to be trumpeted to the world 1 

Enter Erskine. 

Ersk. Madam, I beg pardon for intruding. 

Mrs. R. No intrusion at all, Mr. Erskine. 
Pray, be seated. 

Ersk. Thank you. — I have called on an er- 
rand of the most painful interest to myself: per- 
haps to you. 



134 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Mrs. R. What is it ? 

Ee.sk. My daughter's marriage. 

Mrs. R How can that event possibly interest 
me? 

Ersk. Nay, in honest plainness, Adelaide — 

Mrs. R. Sir ! 

Ersk. Forgive me if, in this hour of agony, I 
use a familiarity that you but recently applied 
to me. 

Mrs. R. And do you, here and now, venture 
to recall that interview 1 Since you do so, let me 
remind you, that was my hour of agony and yours 
of scorn. I have not forgotten the lesson ! 

Ersk. Had you cognizance of this marriage 1 

Mrs. R. I had. 

Ersk. And yet, you suffered it to take place 1 

Mrs. R. Not only that, I aided in its con- 
summation. 

Ersk. Who is this man ? 

Mrs. R. The Count de Bressi. 

Ersk. That is not his name. His letters are 
forged. 

Mrs. R. Nay, if you know his history, why 
apply tome? 



SCENE II. J THE VERY AUe! 135 

Ersk. Because I am on the rack; and be- 
cause, equivocate as you may, I know you are fully 
possessed of the truth. 

Mrs. R. Admit that I am. What have I to 
gain by imparting it? 

Ersk. I conjure you, by your hopes of heaven. 

Mrs. R. I abandoned them, when you spurned 
me from your feet. 

Ersk. Then by your fears of hell. 

Mrs. R. "When I swore vengeance on you, I 
set both worlds at defiance. 

Ersk. What are you ? 

Mrs. R. . To you, a demon: an avenging 
fury : in the recesses of my own soul, a disap- 
pointed, heart-broken woman. 

Ersk. What sacrifice, on my part, can appease 
you? 

Mrs. R. None : it is too late : the work of 
vengeance is accomplished ! 

Ersk. Tell me — and tell me truly — this man : 

is he by heaven, I cannot put my question into 

words ! — Answer my thought I 

Mrs. R. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 



136 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Ersk. . Woman ! by the Eternal Spirit that 
sways our destiny, if you drive me mad, you will 
find yourself grappled by a maniac. — Answer me 
on your life ! 

Mrs. R. Charles Erskine, dare you threaten 
me ! me ! 

Ersk. I am but a child in the grasp of Om- 
nipotence, and you are a fiend empowered to work 
out my curse. — Well. — Here I stand, baring my 
bosom to the shock. — Let the thunderbolt fall ! 

Mrs. R. The thunderbolt is a tiny thing to 
look upon — but mark its scathing power ! You 
desire to know, who is the Count de Bressi ? 

(she produces the coral and bells.) 

He is the owner of this trinket. 

Ersk. It has reft my heart and stunned my 
brain. The work is, indeed, accomplished ! I reel 
and totter with the intoxication of despair. 

Exit Erskine. 

Mrs. R. The triumph is complete ! Ven- 
geance has nothing more to wish for. 



SCENE II.] THE VERY AGE! 137 



Enter Charles Eodney. 

Ha ! my brave boy ! my victorious captain ! Wel- 
come from the field ! Did you meet your honoured 
father-in-law ? 

Chas. I met him, but he did not see me. He 
seemed to see nothing. He sped on like a mad- 
man. What can you have done, to work such a 
sudden transformation % 

Mrs. R. I, Indeed ! What could I do? I, 
a woman ? No matter. The farce is drawing to 
a close and my .part is done. Take this parch- 
ment. It is your secret. It contains a minute 
and certified record of your birth, childhood, man- 
hood : and will establish your identity before any 
legal tribunal. Keep it safely ; but do not open 
it, until you have occasion to do so. 

Chas. Whither away ? You speak as if this 
were a leave-taking. 

Mrs. R. It is. I have fulfilled my destiny, 
and shall return to England to-morrow. I will 
pay my respects to your wife in the course of the 



138 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

morning. Take care of the parchment. That is 
no forgery ! 

Exeunt. 



SCENE HI. 

Mrs. Jenkins's. 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins, Mrs. Spriggins, and 
Tabitha. 

Mrs. J. I never undertook a match that I did 
not accomplish. But this, being a Count on the 
one hand, and the richest heiress of New- York on 
the other, is so brilliant an achievement, I think 
it will do to retire on. 

Tabit. Don't be in too great a hurry to retire : 
I am not yet provided for. 

Mrs. S. And there is Katy Larkins, a pet 
with all of us ; engaged, to my certain knowledge, 
for the last twelve months, to Alfred Spooney. 
You must do something for her. 



SCENE III. J THE VERY AGE! 139 

Mrs. J. Really, one cannot do every thing ! 
— What is the matter with Alfred? 

Mrs. S. Completely spoiled by his trip to 
Europe. Since his return, he has done nothing 
but oil his moustaches, and said nothing but — \j 
"really, 'pon my honour." I think, now, if we 
could manage to get the hair off the outside of his 
head, there would be some hope that his brains 
might become settled in the inside. 

Mrs. J. Mrs. Spriggins — the battle of the 
Nile was the result of an accidental suggestion ; 
and your remark gives me an idea. More than 
that, here is the very man to assist us. 

Enter Doctor Stuebs. 
Doctor, how do you administer the chloroform % 

Doct. S. Lady — wet a bit of cotton with it, 
and let the patient inhale the evaporation. 

Mrs. J. That's very simple : any one can do 
it. — Eh, Mrs. Spriggins? 

Doct. S. True, lady : any one can do it, and 
any one can overdo it. Give too much, and it's a 
coroner's inquest and Greenwood cemetery. Do 



140 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

this under the advice of a physician, lady, or you 
may wake up some fine morning and find yourself 
in the Tombs. What operation is to be per- 
formed ? 

Mrs. J. A friend wants a tooth out : nothing 
more, 

Doct. S. Take her to Parmly. His instru- 
ments and his skill in using them are better than 
the chloroform. 

Mrs. J. (to Mrs. S.) "We must take the risk 
of this. I'll send a message to Alfred and another 
to the apothecary. We'll treat the youth as Deli- 
lah treated Samson. 

Exeunt Mrs J. and Mrs. S. 

Doct. S. I presume, lady, you are the friend 
suffering with the tooth-ache ? 

Tabit. Oh, no ! I never had a tooth-ache in 
my life. In fact, doctor, I rather pride myself on 
my teeth. 

Doct. S. Hum — true, lady: and with good 
reason. — I wonder where Mrs. Jenkins has gone? — 
As I was saying ; yes : white ; regular in arrange- 



SCENE III.] THE VERY AGE! 141 

ment ; uniform in size. Upon my word, madam, 
your teeth indicate good health and good temper. 
They give sweetness to your smile and sound the 
alarm to — a sirloin. 

Tabit. Doctor, you are a dreadful quiz. 

Doct. S. Lady, mention it not: breathe it 
not. — Where the devil is Mrs. Jenkins? 

Tabit. Eh — doctor — 

Doct. S. Lady? 

Tabit. I want, doctor — a little advice. 

Doct. S. Professional, lady ? 

Tabit. Oh, no ! — at least — that is — yes. 

Doct. S. Your hand, if you please. Pulse 
agitated : eye wavering : breath intermittent. I 
would recommend nine Brandreth's pills over 
night, and a pail of congress-water next morning. 
— Are you ever troubled with palpitation of the 
heart, lady ? 

Tabit. Yes, doctor — frequently — sometimes. 

Doct. S. Oh, lord ! will Mrs. Jenkins never 
come? — Eh, palpitation when you have been run- 
ning up stairs, I suppose ? 

Tabit. That is not quite it. But when my 



142 THE VERY AGE! [ACT. V. 

sympathies are enlisted for a friend ; or when I try 
to explain my feelings to — to — the doctor — 

Doct. S. Lady, I think I hear Mrs. Jenkins. 

Tabit. No — she has gone out. As I was say- 
ing, I have a little matter of business, doctor ; and 
I should have such confidence in your judgment — 
that — 

Doct. S. Well, madam, out with it, for hea- 
ven's sake ! 

Tabit. The plain truth of the matter is, doctor, 
I have here script for fifty thousand dollars New- 
York State sevens of 1850, just about to be paid 
off, and I want a prudent friend's advice about re- 
investing the money. 

Doct. S. (Aside.) Double and thunder! This 
is a style of love-making rather more to the pur- 
pose than her cursed sentiment ! Fifty thousand ! 
good heavens ! — hem ! I am considering, my dear 
Miss Pippin : ah : true : I have it. It's very for- 
tunate you spoke of this. — Fifty thousand ! — Eh, 
what do you prefer yourself, Miss Pippin ? What 
particular stock do you fancy 1 

Tabit. Any thing, doptor, but fancy stocks. 



SCENE III. J THE VERY AGE! 143 

My preference is for the solid, substantial, mid- 
dle-aged — I mean, dividend-paying securities. 

Doct. S. If you would confide in my judg- 
ment — 

Tabit. Oh, doctor, I would confide every thing 
to you. 

Doct. S. Dear lady — hem ! 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Spriggins. 

Mrs. J. Doctor, would a teaspoon-full be an 
over-dose % 

Doct. S. "What's a teaspoon-full to fifty thou — 
eh ! — I beg pardon, lady : you speak of the chlo- 
roform 1 

Servant enter s, gives a note to Mrs. Jenkins, 

and exit. 
Mrs. J. Yes, doctor. — Stay, what's this? From 
Mr. Erskine. 

(reads.) " Mr. Erskine, with an apology and 
his compliments, begs Mrs. Jenkins and all who 
were ywesent at the marriage, to call at his 
immediately," 



144 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Mrs. S. What can this mean ? 

Doct. S. I must see him, without delay. La- 
dies, you will excuse me ? — Miss Pippin, may I 
beg a word with you 1 

Exeunt Dr. Stubbs and Tabitha. 

Mrs. J. The man has come to his senses, as 
I knew he would. But we must provide for Al- 
fred in the first place. He will he here directly, 
and you shall see if there are not more ways than 
one of bringing fickle-minded men to their duty. 

Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.] THE VERY AGE! 145 

SCENE IV. 
Erskine's Drawing-room. 

Enter Erskine. 

Ersk. At times, coincidences strike us with a 
singular power ! Last night, in no mood, heaven 
knows, to seek amusement, but rather to escape 
from my own thoughts, I strolled into the theatre: 
and there, of all plays in the language, and of all 
scenes in that play, I chanced upon the Fourth 
Act of Virginius. The fond father, seeing his 
child about to be dishonoured, stabs her before the 
assembled multitudes of Rome. — A memorable tra- 
gedy ! An act of devotion that has immortalized 
his name and caused thousands of a remote poster- 
ity to admire the godlike heroism of his sacrifice. 
How close is the parallel to my own case ! — ex- 
cept in this — he saved his daughter from dishon- 
our : I can but prevent the continuance of — oh ! 
can a just God permit this extremity of ruin? 
7 



146 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Enter Clara. 

My poor, sweet, lost darling ! — kiss me. Thus to 
embrace you, and thus to die, were best ! 

Clara. My dear father ! do not give way to 
such wildness of grief. Charles is strange, eccen- 
tric, unkind : but my dear father ! there is nothing 
to call for this dreadful outbreak of sorrow. I 
have exaggerated this : I have, papa. And I have 
provoked him, too, by my petulance. Now smooth 
over your brow and smile again, and I will be a 
better girl ; I will, indeed, papa ! 

Ersk. My poor child ! you know not — her 
simple unconsciousness stabs me to the soul ! 

Enter Charles Rodney. 

Chas. Mr. Erskine, you must forgive me for 
interrupting you : you do not yet know all. 

Ersk. Peace ; peace ; I know far too much. 
To add to my knowledge were to blacken the 
gloomy aspect of despair. 

Chas. I must, nevertheless, persist ; and you 
will justify my resolution. What you now know. 



SUENE IV. j THE V E R Y A G E ! 147 

was unknown to me until the ceremony was per- 
formed. Immediately afterward, I was led to 
suspect and substantially to discover the truth, 
and — I have been governed by it. 

Ersk. Explain yourself ! — a ray of light breaks 
in upon me. 

Chas. I guessed my mother's secret too soon 
for her infernal purpose, and in time to defeat it. 

Ersk. The proof! the proof! give me the 
proof ! 

Chas. I absented myself yesterday afternoon 
and evening on purpose to offend Clara — 

Ersk. Yes — yes — yes — 

Chas. And I passed the night on that sofa. 
Her anger is the proof of my integrity. 

Ersk. My boy ! my son ! my saviour ! I 
shall go mad with joy as but now I was like to do 
with agony. Come, both of you, to my library. 
We shall be interrupted here. I sent for some 
people for a very different purpose. Come. The 
hand of God protects us still. 

Exeunt. 



1 48 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Enter Doctor Stubbs. 
Doct. S. Eh? all out? nobody at home? 
What on earth is the matter? Something very 
remarkable is going on somewhere ! 

Enter Mrs. Jenkins, Mrs. Spriggins, Miss Lar- 
kins, Tabitha : and after them, Servants bring- 
ing Alfred on a chair ; his hair cropped sho?~t, 
moustaches and whiskers all gone. 

Mrs. J. Oh, doctor ! doctor ! we couldn't stop 
to send for you ; and we brought him with us and 
followed you. I am afraid we have killed him ! 

Doct. S. What's the matter, lady ? Has the 
young gentleman got the cholera ? 

Mrs. J. I wish it were no worse ! We gave 
him an overdose, doctor. 

Doct. S. Of what, lady ? 

Mrs. J. Of that confounded chloroform. 

Doct. S. Is that all ? Don't disturb yourself, 
then, lady. I'll restore him in a jiffy. 

(he takes a vial from his pocket 
and holds it to Alfred's lips.) 



SCENE IV. J THE VERY AGE.' 149 

Now that I can get at his mouth, he is safe enough. 
Observe : it works like a charm. 
Alf. Really, 'pon my honour — 
Doct. S. How do you find yourself, now 1 
Alf. "When I was in Botany Bay, I — really, 
? pon my honour — where am I ? — where are my — 
[feels for his moustaches) — doctor ! — oh, dear ! 
What terrible thing has happened to me % 

Doct. S. To the best of my judgment, young 
gentleman, you have paid the barber that shilling, 
and you and he have made a devilish good bar- 
gain : you are relieved of your baboon's mane ; and 
he, with his money, has got his money's worth of 
the raw material. 

Mrs. J. Mr. Spooney, as you have now, for 
the first time since your return from Europe, fin- 
ished a sentence, I presume we can look upon you 
as restored to your right mind. I therefore take 
the liberty of summoning you to your allegiance. 

(she hands him over to Miss L.) 

Alf. My dear Kate, really, 'pon my — 

Miss L. Now, Alfred — no more of that ! 

7# 



150 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

Doct. S. In the meantime, Mrs. Jenkins, this 
lady — between ourselves, a little passee, something 
of a virago, and none the better for spending fifty 
winters at Tarrytown : but all the better for the 
other fifty, the fifty thousand — hem ! As I was 
saying, lady Jenkins, this lady and I have come to 
an understanding without your assistance. 

Enter Erskine, Clara and Charles. 

Ersk. My friends, you are welcome, one and 
all. The Count has received information from his 
parents which renders his immediate absence from 
New- York indispensable : but I desired to say to 
you who have had some agency in making him a 
member of my family, and who are aware of some 
differences between us since he became such — that 
those differences are satisfactorily adjusted. I am 
glad to make you witnesses of our reconciliation. 

Enter Mrs. Rodney. 

Madam, you come too late. 

Mrs. R. It is not too late to congratulate you 
on your seeming recovery from a recent excitement. 



SCENE IV.] THE VERY A G E ! 151 

Ersk. Truly, no : it is not : for the cause of 
my excitement has ceased. 

Mrs. R. Indeed! 

Ersk. Indeed. 

Mrs. R. The Count — the Bavarian noble- 
man — your son-in-law — has explained certain little 
affairs to your entire satisfaction? 

Ersk. He has done so. And he has made 
me acquainted with some facts which have not yet 
been communicated to you. My remark embarras- 
ses you. Very probably. You will, perhaps, guess 
its meaning, however, when I say to you — the 
Count was yesterday aware of your secret. 

Mrs. R, Is this true ? 

Chas. Perfectly. Instead of being deceived, 
I deceived you. 

Mrs. II . Give me — give me that parchment. 
You have no use for it now : give it me ! 

(Charles pretends to search 
his pockets for it.) 
[Aside to Erskine.) I am partly defeated ; but 
you cannot wholly escape me. In the absence of 
proof that I alone possess, the marriage is valid 



152 THE VERY AGE! [ACT V. 

and no power on earth can annul it. (to Charles.) 
Quick ! give me the parchment ! 

Ersk. (producing the parchment.) Is this the 
proof you refer to ? 

Mrs. K. (grasping at it.) It is mine ! give it 
me ! 

Ersk. Hold ! raise a finger in violence ; or 
lisp but one word of what you know, and I will 
proclaim your infamy to the remotest corner of the 
earth. Take yourself home — do you mark? home! 
And if ever again you venture beyond its sea-girt 
margin, you shall sink under the vengeance you 
have invoked on others. 

Mrs. R. Having shown no mercy, I expect 
none from you. But your threat is idle. This 
caprice of my fortune has in itself a retributive 
power, far surpassing any act of yours, and to that 
I bow in all the bitterness of disappointed hate. 
But my purpose of vengeance is a part of my being ; 
and life will not prove too short for its achievement. 

Exit Mrs. Rodney. 

Ersk. Miserable, vindictive wretch ! And 
yet, how nearly was I enveloped in her toils ! 



SCENE IV.] THE VERY AGE! 153 

Enter Mrs. Spooney. 

Mrs. Sp. Where is my son ? — oh, Alfred ! I 
saw them taking you into the carriage, and I thought 
you were killed. 

Alf. Don't be alarmed, mother : it's all over 
now. I was exhausted by the loss of so much 
hair. 

Mrs. Sp. Oh, dear ! you look like a fright ! 

Doer. S. Or, like a shaved pig. Never mind, 
lady : — If he has lost his hair, he has recovered his 
brains. And I trust he will hereafter remember 
that true distinction — even in New-York society — 
is not to be gained by travelling six weeks on the 
Continent, and coming home with moustaches a 
foot long. 



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